Friday, June 25, 2010


these are the people made of silk and wool
joints strung with spun-fine floss,
pink white sinews, flesh fatty on the
bone, beef to the heel

and car mined lips flash, a bloody
gash, talking, talking, talking---
will she never stop---she does--
corking her mouth with gold-tipped cigarette

as smoke spirals her eyes rove, here
to there, the minutes of intermission
ticking past on her thickjewelled wrist,
two acts have passed, the pages of

the program already creased and bent,
she lounges, catlike, on a chair,
imbibing the lights, swallowing them
whole, gold globes insubstantial food

the man, meanwhile, paces, nervous
anticipatory steps, eyes fixed glaze-
gaze on the door, waiting for the
grand entrance of another

who speaks her part in stops and
starts, nonetheless, her language
soothes him, her vowels and
consonants morphine to his veins,

she soothes him--and so he waits,
pacing, apace, caged by the smooth
banisters, the tricky carpets that
trip one, urban pitfalls for our
urbane pratfalls--oh, catch me before I
fall, let me drink from you, parasitic,
give me your words so that I can
chew them to soft pulp for the lining
of my nest

the bells ring--the play ends--and
starts again, the man lingers,
longing for what will not come, the
woman rises and glides, shimmering
fabric, so durable and fine

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