• And they shall feed for a lifetime


    Here’s to me seeing you uglier than last I saw you.
    This delicious conversation, but we heard
    what the fisher brought in: there’s a hook in this;

    don’t you ever come to me wounded . . .
    For isn’t this quite the set-up

    we’ve locked up what needed locking up . . .
    though imperfect. For one thing, there’s bail.
    There’s a quake and they’re not sitting in the middle,

    prone, where the earth melts into itself.
    If you’d care to visit me at the bottom of this,
    don’t blow-dry your hair. Leave the lashes alone,

    my love, bring me those whiteheads, that skin of scales,
    and your blouse: the plain one / that smells of incense.


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