how much we owe to the weather, too! who takes
the bricks from our mouths & makes them
clean. his hands, as able in touch as fire,
turning the bodies so that, to us,
they become mine fields: our lovers
slowly, taking the liquor in to their breasts
as from the front seat to the empty house,
where we had begun to wait-- their legs
such that the meat is exposed. to earth
as fed. from the finger to the lip;
the small, & wavy word
of smoke at last. the light at last
tender on their eyes. how we think of them
bored, their spines cold
against the back of a chair.
how we think of the word. the window.
& the terrace above the city,
is wind. that the moon has crawled
through the mirror to put a gun at our ribs.
how we rinse the dish in our loss.
how we stroke the hip until it is dry.

10/18/2002

Posted on 10/20/2002
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