The globe’s skin, the poet’s hand
Over it. The bruised heart slinks
Away. The voices hang on our bodies,
The voices hang on our bodies, and
In the candlelight, the shortened spaces.
I can finally breathe in your absence.
The nocturnal lack of an adage,
Shyness heaving onto the water’s edge,
The makings of a harbor go on and on.
Legerdemain of corn dying in a field,
A chain of daisies around a girl’s neck,
We were fishing, then we faded as the
Dogs lay asleep. Two by two they go,
And then one by one. The syntax of
All that is unpaid comes to lap a puddle.
We are used to our day’s work, and
Now it is time to tell our friends about it.
