the man with no hunger
and some sunday girl without meat;
on the edge of a sinking front stoop,
she is bound for dead.
her hair a grey bruise.
all the other voices are only god leaving her behind.
she should be baptized at least.
i'd be easier to love if i were anything else,
but the way i say things makes me sound as if
pretty doesn't fit me most mournings; the mess i made
stretched over my face, making me scream, and i knew...
the night: is sweating.
he buries her
between the trees, so she can hold on.
and of course, she wants beautiful.
of course, she needs beautiful.
the skinny way of love: caves her stomach,
the thick hands rage: cut bones from hearts.
the sound of cotton kills her with the sway of nude oaks.
they play slow at snakes making shadows. . . .
her burning bush, and he tries to hush the legions
of words skipping, just like a girl, from her mouth.
be quiet. be quiet. be quiet.
you want me so brilliantly cold.
there anything to eat? of love? left
over from the last supper? he wipes the knife
she is shaped like fog in his head.
i think there is a picture of me under your tongue
blessed be the name, the rural leaves that will cover her.
maybe he doesn't remember how.
maybe he cannot refuse her.
maybe the way her breath is so so close. ...
he could stab himself into the nextlife for that:
the frame of them both is slackjaw
maybe she could save him if she dies
but if she could save just one thing,
it would be the clouds he culls.