( so do I to take this
rhythm & lathe
in the workshop

of my aorta
& construct some
neatness, some

precise fantasy—
) where the November
wind of streets

is barred from
bathrooms by the
foggy windows &

bathing salts; too late
to dry hair or talcum
ma’s old towels

perhaps simply one
fair lady before work’s
uniform came to say

‘sleep, the cheeky verb!’
posing in flushed flesh
with immoveable ring

& there my nine-year
work came to pronounce
its fissure between

her head & pen ink
body, the collar of her
slim, ribs uplifting

can rack to uphold
a small reservoir of
hair’s last watery lip;

chess-table tiles
call collect on the view
& sixty-watt bulb clipped

the constellation from
neck to shoulder of her
grace, now clean & bare.