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.
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.
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.