The Whip

I spent a night turning in bed,
my love was a feather, a flat
 
sleeping thing. She was
very white
 
and quiet, and above us on
the roof, there was another woman I
 
also loved, had
addressed myself to in
 
a fit she
returned. That
 
encompasses it. But now I was
lonely, I yelled,
 
but what is that? Ugh,
she said, beside me, she put
 
her hand on
my back, for which act
 
I think to say this
wrongly.