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from
Domestics
I. More or less the end is ending and our bodies are kissed up, watching for wolves through the kitchen window. At this temperature they sound much closer than the ridge, closer than the tree line, a fold of night cropping down over this loss: one rat bastard slicing bread for one son of a bitch. Even the new recipes procure sentiment. A carton of smokes in the oven, the paper lantern on my breath. And the starting point hums all that’s left of our chorus: where the whole tune folds, and quickly slouches back into the machine. II. Legerdemain is the keeper of this park. It darns trousered leaves to rags and uses no epigram. We put a little water in the kettle; we ask and pull. We know well the useless the meter that measures what’s left of us in this suburb of dirty tennis courts. Behind the power plant trespasses the hours; behind the hours trespasses the light and then, when the light is all used up we ask and pull; the little fears scratch their cheeks in to ours. V. These awkward strains in your letters Each a threadless distance between crow and lineament and all the phone lines down, the geometries unpure. A few lists here, the reeds dry and leaning whisper between paper bag mouths wide open what flutters flutters good then settles, rest of the day gives the old heave-ho and comes in on a pattern of light no less trusting than dusk dusting your legs, saying your name in spite of names. Some salt; a garden. |