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.