*
Marie, you are not unclean.
You are rose-oiled and shiny
and ensconced in the corner
with the witty anesthesiologist,
inhaling ladysmoke
at the café.
It’s a pleasure
just to watch you scratch the crud
off your lotto ticket tonight.
Then in comes Jackson, looking like
he’s left his wife. And again Larry
is extending his feelers toward Clarice.
Larry, what gives?
You’ll soon lose interest.
Eh, Mr Candlelight?
I want to give you
a good close reading.
Come this way.
*
Oh, skin! What a cloth to live in.
We are not at the end of things.
He’s tuxedoed and I’m in a cocktail dress.
How gussied up we get.
Drink this, roll that.
Another sender different gender.
We’re going to hit a winner.
We’re going to swallow vodka
and slap down money
and stand around frocked and gossiping
and bleed a little in the bathroom
from earlier today when we were a little minx.
(He really is of the masses, mama said.)
*
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing
Mr and Mrs of the moment now and dancing.
Mr and Mrs End of Suffering.
Mr and Mrs Safe and Headed Where.
In the reach of night she’ll have him. He’ll have.
A series of days filled up and emptied.
A welcome closeness and a womb.
He pours her a fizzy one. She pours him hers.
Let’s keep on doing this, let’s do it
together. A bit drunk and full of wishing.
(Two people jumping out of a building holding hands, R said.)
MR AND MRS END OF SUFFERING
*
The uses of the body are manifold.
Lips, fingers, the back of the neck.
One should make as full a use as possible
before time’s up. In Paradise.
You should appreciate. Don’t squander.
Take a deep juicy bite then swallow.
Peaches are meant for tasting.
In Paradise.
We lay and many afternoons
brought pleasure and relief.
*
To begin with, I wanted to talk to him.
The corner table received us, two large animals
in a dinner booth composed entirely of light,
the Jack of Blue Matter
sitting across from me in the unknown air.
Someone from the gallery of photographs
lining my grandfather’s hall.
Long after dark we walked south along the avenue
like a couple of drunks.
Once every few months we met for dinner.
Then the long quiet
interval of years between us. Improbable.
*
In opera you get what you need.
It’s not marriage.
A man to sleep with.
A place to lay my head at night.
He knows every road of me.
Can find the turnoff without a map.
Can drive along the low stone wall
in the dark until he reaches the open field
and I go with him, countryside.
I haven’t broken any law.
I’m in my own car steering into my own
parking place.
He’s my co-, my accomplice.
I hardly see him.
*
Men look at me like they have the thing I want.
That somber hungry forcefield smack on.
Конец
