Under a shudder of sun
A murmur of wood.
The opal sky impure as lead,
A leaf is scrolling in the dumb verb
of your scalp, the matted junk
of your hair, where the flat strands
that glue together fold aside
Striated in folds, his red gown flows
Like a firemuscle dipped to a flamelip,
While featherlegged, lame and limp his toes
Writhe wearily wave-enrhythmed steps, chipped
Who is here
and who will bother?
It doesn't matter dear,
There would be nothing more to say.
You would love me because I should have strangled you
We sleep in private homes now, forgetting
the laundry or whomever's name. Snow
Fondly, have we apprehended tomorrow?
O let us not say anything rushed too soon,
For too soon it was quick unexpectedness
Who snapped and left us brushed to go
The poor man with anonymous face
Stalks the cut rows of flower fields
Where sleeping turf blurs into bland
Patches of sea-blue, chalk, blushing rose
It was a time of grandeur then,
When marble strangers huddled in lobbies
And cell phones stopped working
Their tired itemizing and lonely inventories
His stone shoes tipped askew on the curb’s hush,
The plump of poor men’s cheeks he saw bestow