I watch
a little black thing of
hair
and string,
lashes
dashed between bangs and sad
little lashing tail
and teeth (I
remember lying
on the garage floor,
the bumps of the carpet
a pox,
the line of your nails a
satisfied sink
in the back –
clacked teeth crashed,
“Do you want to?” / “I
do.” / “Are you sure?” / I didn’t
answer only
entered. You
grew red and
preoccupied;
I screamed
precious whispers at you
but never spoke. When the sun came up
I could not come and you were
tired, spent, exhausted, while I
was only empty
(There is
a terrible name
on your whispers,
an unmarked rustle
of nothing
.)
.)
.
How long will you pace
back and
forth, just doing your job?
hidden behind those bangs bagging
with plastic
or paper arranging
boxes in their eyelike,
vacant shelves?
where will you go tonight?
will you take off your belt?
will you stand in front of the black
window at midnight and press flesh
to the naked glass and feel cold
and eternal
and empty?
will you count stars on your tongue
as you catch them?
how long will you shake your
keys at your
hip,
and see me,
refusing to look?
There is a savage, red veil on the moon.
My hyacinths are melting.
