She is scared by the
long slow dwindling of
the heart's manouevres
towards the end of the night,
or of life.
So she tugs on its clammy fingers
tries to get it to waltz again.
I tell her:"Live with me between
a name and anonymity."
I say nothing.
There's no foyer in a one-room kitchenette,
but I stand in the foyer anyways,
holding half a poem -
or half a person.
And tilting at windmills.
She is a page and then some
a rough border - shaggy corners.
Glue chafing from the binding.
And maybe she is older than me.
But nobody ever learned to hunt
by watching vegetables being chopped,
and we both agree that since we're
pledging allegiance, we can put our hands
anywhere, right? I just haven't
mentioned which country.
The point is this:
Tomorrow is a mystery creature,and I refuse to guess
whether it wears fur or feathers.