Poetry: Tired Sex

Trying to strike a match in a matchbook
that has lain all winter under the woodpile:
damp sulfur
on sodden cardboard.
I catch myself yawning. Through the window
I watch that sparrow the cat
keeps batting around.

Like turning the pages of a book the teacher assigned --

You ought to read it, she said.
It's great literature.

- Chana Bloch, "Tired Sex"