There is a kink in the cure. —T. Murray
not sex—intercession of flesh—
not communion in a body
not faithful but
still slip into the dim, confess
I failed to grasp the Who,
which venial wrong would deal
the mortal blow. The psalm was
unremarkable, save:
every warm-blooded creature contains
brains enough to tan its own hide
why those suits keep coming back
from the discard pile to haunt us
we don’t do right by what’s in hand
disclosure, contrition, amends
marching bead by worried bead
upon my rosary—fails to reconcile
a knot in the garland
that keeps on hitching
--- --- --- ---
who can track the days
the name of the lake—
what music played
the way the waves reached out
withdrew and
insect-chorus scored
the summer dark—
the night we drunk on Mickey’s Fine
lukewarm malt liquor
watched the water mount and fold
and fucked each other—
of memory, I’m a simple girl—
easy to please short-term
at present I wonder when you’ll come round
to overturn this
remember— recover your—
metronomic wah— my One
what warped-platter spun
the white-vinyl
with a diamond stylus hitching
--- --- --- ---
and an itch in it
real bad
I’m ringing like an apse, oh
lay your pick, I’ll break
and spill the shades
the ornate agate aches,
silk against the bone—
to pity the need you must
punish the stone
spare the strop: spoil the grovel
—speak the please
all tongues contain, cannot
contain, the please
erupting in my face—
in lust, or blissed, or anguished
at the wrist
by rod, by riding crop
divined— you love a dim
shaft in collapse, where daylight
rushed to stitch the gash
you have me
on my knees now
cleave your woman.
The earth moves—