What might she send — a wet sleeve, or platter of brine-latticed bluefish dusky with capers, lemons, wine; a briar for your thumb, a mouth, lunatic, to suck the blood: a signal that one too often inside & now beside herself with thoughts of you wonders how she might woo and through dew-whetted keyhole pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous with waiting. Come. Hunt here. Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.
How I Might Sound if I Left Myself Alone
Turning to watch you leave,
I see we must always walk toward
other rooms, river of heaven
between two office buildings.
Orphaned cloud, cioppino poppling,
book spined in the open palm. Unstoppable light.
I think it is all right.
Or do tonight, garden toad
a speaking stone,
young sound in an old heart.
Annul the self? I float it,
a day lily in my wine. Oblivion?
I love our lives,
keeping me from it.