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.