A single post, a point of rusting
tin in the sky
marks the affectionate place we
move to, he and I,
on time as life/death is
prompt. Strangely
too smooth is the gesture of
his dark-chocolate-like hat.
Menace at the edges of his
eyes his mouth tightly
shut the fragrance yellows:
strangely too low is the
bow he makes tonight.
On time? That untimed note in
his voice, what is it that the brain
alerts to that the heart
drops at? Pink blood splashes
out under that evil sky, that Palm
of tin and rust.
Six, dropping its unbearable head to
the deeper bottom of the clock.
There he waits by the post.
Now we kiss soundlessly, his
lips stiff like hands given to queens or
sentimental corpses. Thus
do you hear around us the shoving elbows of
ordinary bustle and
rising is the strangely irksome
screech, like a cat screaming,
angrier, longer, too sour: what
a nightmare-strangeness life is,
as death dresses up sprightly, as
if absentmindedly.
And that nightmare reached my knees
only this morning and
now reaches the sky-blue stars, and
has grown to its true height,
crying silently love/love/love until
—Has it gone
six, shall we go to the cinema?
I shout it:
(I turn my head away.)