her head is thrown back in laughter
and the moment stops

i have to look at her,
at the scene,
because we are placed in just such a way
that it could be painted
in strokes that destroy the secret

not of the words,
but the showing of our teeth

i have to look at her,
at the scene,
from the corner of the room in order
to see it
hovering between us

her laughter and mine meeting in the air
to blend, to dissolve
a new color, a secret

a palm up and open
to the sky

the glass lip
of a wicked bottle

wheels that turn
toward spring

small things, small things
such small things

when autumn laid her first frost down
she did it early in the mornings
fields of newsprint
breaking stories

i could warm two pale hands
right there
right where the wires cross

how nice

i could still know
who was the wall
and who was the ivy

commune, o lovers!
follow the stars!
your manna is not yet redeemed!

stand guard, lovers!
your sweet contraband
sets tired souls to envy!

one for each deep voice
one for every remark, snide, in passing
one for each neck craned, speaking down

the furnace is fed.

one for each space taken up
one for every conversation commandeered
one for each "sure about that?"

"yes."
a round in the chamber

one for each man unaccustomed
to solid-footed women
armed with nothing less than
surety.