19.
Leonine moths on the window screen and what
he may have noted, the dalmatian dog walker,
Korean cargo a-bob in from the harbor
where fleet formations (old bandit ghosts) break
with sleepy nudges. Between islands the tight-rope
sways in unconvincing ease; the quiet’s been never
perfected. What’s eyeless in the wall feels out holes to
rooms, for light to cheek, the tea & tins of burning
leaves, our make-up made of what seeps out.
These aren’t tellings of spare parts, but guesses
spoken from a wicker chair, a victorious reclaiming of
kinder prizes easy to forget on windy tarmacs.
They name it a routine affair of love. I call it
a part of the old anatomy, bony and flesh.
