Say it straight:
is a kind of house— the body bends and
the shape of the shoulder blade spells irretrievable.
What distances are
mine, at last, when I inherit a shaded
life, but a poor
way of speaking?
The key in the door turns clockwise.
Water ripples in a pitcher on the table.
And who will say they knew of me
in the tangled gestures of July’s
My friend opens a bottle that smells
of elderberries and indecision, then
rests his glass on Pierre Bonnard: The Late Interiors.
And what has ever been as suddenly naked
as a painter’s wife stepping from the bath?
There’s a word for this.
The light through the window hurts my eyes.
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