Quite

I will write you no poems to tell you how alarming
familiarity is. No ways to tell
about knee plate earthquakes,
how your ego grew tanin roses.
how I thought prick, in the shower cubicle
but lay wet under you anyway.

All mirrors are motorways
leaking old lace back onto your face,
the temporary towel hangs on the temporary hook
the temporary metaphor of this is disgusting.
Words like death, have no place in poems.
Writing is eating fist fulls of broiled chicken in lamplight in autumn
watching avenues decease. It is possible to avoid whole themes,
keep the tone even, like icing a cake,
get nearly quite to what you mean.