( 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.
Saturday, November 23
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