this head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang
in mechanical joy;
my hands blaze with arias
but i think of books
on anatomy,
and i fall from you
as nations burn in anger…
 
to recover from most pitiful error
and rebuild, this is it
loss and mending
until they take us in.
 
the glory of a saturday afternoon
like biting into an old peach
and you walk across the room
heavy with everything
except my love.

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