Week 3, Calisthenics

Draft 1: 

When we go to bed, the frogs moan
and I think of Venice, glass and laundry.

When we go to bed, did I brush the dog's hair
until it was fine with the butcher I pay Tuesdays?

When I go to bed, the fox tickles
the broom, the moss and her-all asleep.

When I go to bed, the elves buzz
the cave with slut's work.

When I go to bed, the faded flower linoleum
curls and rusts for her. 

Draft 2: 

Here, where the frogs moan and the springs ask for more,
I think of Venice and laundry hung to dry like days old communion bread.
The pale chips of shirts, socks, and his girlfriend's underwear try to rustle-but fail.
The bribing salt and heat of the canal cook the sardine linens like chalk.

And there, on Tuesdays, the butcher sells the hanging feet and brains
to the old woman covered in burlap looking for a steal. The haunches
of her gondola colored mutt tumble with life wanting escape--and kibble.
The days old wounds heal too fast.

But here, the faded linoleum curls and rusts looking for the magic
of magnolias and pale blue chickens to restore the glory before grease traps
and washing machines. Humming with slut's work, the termites cuss
the melting of their yawning oaks.