A Thousand Cuts
Pass the pain, the ibuprofen and sewing kits
to blood clot close the wounds we crestfallen carry
in case of exposure, in case we give ourselves away.
You hold the binds, the whipping boy, a ripe-blue
bruise here and there you tie the cord to, an
anchor-wheel in fishhook style.
I am, still, the unchipped tooth of porcelain
making; never bit the strawberry summer, never
saw the bliss of winter's perfect-passing sky.
It has its own dead pleasures, its own muddy swath
of leaves and the smash of Lebanese liquor bottles,
but it has too its own faint longing for knives.
Too Much Time
Some state in the burnished bluster of flask casing
reflections, half-moons and Ferris wheel cars, you'll
find yourself there, some day, some day, in the
last hour's chime.
And, perhaps, for you.
The ink quill bindings of parchment and ribbon-ties,
matrimonial script on hard harp filigrees, scale
weight in tumble stone, you'll have, you'll have
a happiness there.
And, maybe, you will.
The blood and bone of cross-cloth tables,
candlestick memories of sweetest toned talk,
gold-hued in passive performance, the dance, the dance
we all go through.
Oh, you, yes, of course.
The tense sway of adolescent surprises, darkness
and sheet covers draped from pale to post
in breathy flashlight talk, in time, in time,
they held their meanings.
But, me, well, that's another thing.
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