Of all the bloody-eyed, bent violins playing wedding hymns,
of all the marks left in hesitated haste, dry mouths
from running and communion wafers' contemplative taste,
the worst is always the newest.
Still fresh, scab-like peel of name etched in thought
as eroded water rock, as gift store broaches
carrying Connemara's marble eyes, thought it over
coffee and tobacco pipes; it was not so.
Tip-show in dancer's style, moving to the doorway and back
in weakness pretending not to notice your musing
features, pretending you weren't brighter than the
halogen lamp, pretending vision did not stray,
and most of all, pretending nothing lasted.
This skin is not fine pottery shard, encased in
inch-thick glass and alarm, not to be touched
for voices echo sets afoot the teeter-fall
to shoe-polished floor and crooked smile reflection,
though it seems in midnights as fragile.
This breath is not becalmed as September's breeze,
casting window's light at awkward angles, tilting gusts
at Eindhoven windmills, shaking loose beach grains
and abandoned gum wrappings in casual float,
though it can pretend at moment's alert.