lifts
out of the doorway with an old butter knife, tweezers, boiling water
slopped
from the kettle you keep shifting away from the miniature pup's cool nose
ever stuck
in your business, your armpit, your warm crotch while you're dreaming,
loosely
of lintels made of what they sound, of dryer fur from socks, rags, fields of cotton
yielded up
in blocks of soft options, in precipices of sheet threads and skin cells
an enjambment of wall and open space,
a place from which to step forth, a one and a two, a threadlyneedle
towards the body, from the dark
from the doggy, to the park
over tossings, giveways, pathways, whichways,
I know, resisting, the old heave-ho.
No comments:
Post a Comment