Perched motionless Gleaming among the catkins of the oak— with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching Neck pleated Head resting in feathery shoulders Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching— where below that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her? by the naked window Did he see the lace that bloomed? No—fell like spring’s full flakes to coat the hills in white for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see? the way her hair lapped the spine and blade of back? Bent the night—so darkly red from black as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want! the flesh of warm yellow lamplight the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can! Sculpt your loneliness! and stick it through with any hard implement handy! Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets! on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep turning forsythia of day to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray spilling down thick hips of the river’s dungeon banks so steeped in heat to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River! who always goes to her when you will not...
And if—you really loved I mean—loved! who you saw... you would have seen the tired tears—roll than linger—Years forsake their bones defy the need for sleep Defy everything!
Except— the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her you would have made the distance! crossed the lawn! skipped stairs! Fought the Night of Time! taken her porch like a champion! Heart pounding near—the door down!