Chana Bloch





Tired Sex

We're trying to strike a match in a matchbook
that has lain all winter under the woodpile:  
damp sulphur
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.