Our ménage à trois by candlelight
The various absurdities: black lace
I move my body smell next to yours
Your spice of Zanzibar.
Mine rains, yours pours
Your pleasure and sighs
What if I made you hear this as music?
I am winding down
Only the night is wound up tight
Who's in charge of the nip and tuck
of a winter sky,
the long solstice,
the constellation of birds—
ribboning their way across
the low pink horizon,
the smoky grey of December
skies, a path to somewhere
The ribbon curls in on itself.
The flock, if something so large
goes by that name, millions
of black wings erupting
from the North, flows
like the air has become
a river, the birds banking
and shifting with the currents.
While You Sleep
At night, while you sleep, they rise up
while we wander lost in the natural
symbols of our dreams.
These simple household goods
mimic speech and intertwine
into their own design.
Every sound clicks
into place, a tone
like bells, like machines make.
All these manufactured servants
are singing to themselves,
to soothe us into sleep.
The morning swung open like an iron gate
We walked down the path to breakfast
A cool wind blows this very moment
Stirring the steadfast willow leaves
The wheat bend, the leaves of the peach tress
In a chorus line
The invitation was for you
Rest with me under the linden tree
As the sky returned to baby blue,
the swifts do not sing
what they do well
What scene would I want to be framed in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?
It gives me time to ponder
about all that goes on outside my window.
At the Movies
At the ticket window, I won’t follow
the body of the usher as she leans
to break a twenty with a press
of cash register and chest. She’ll tear
my ticket and pass twelve-fifty
beneath the glass, steering me
past the snack bar where two rows
of candies in loud yellow boxes
will glow like lines on a highway
and lead me to my seat. The previews
will warn R for restricted, S for sex
and V for violence, and I’ll remember
the V-neck of the usher’s sweater
and the fainter V drawn by her breasts.
Baudelaire considers you his brother
and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs as if ....to make sure you
have not closed the book,
and now I am summoning you up again,
dark silent figure standing in the doorway of these words.
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