Poetry

It’s a routine we’ve worked out
to pass the winter.
I saw myself in two, in three,
into a puzzle,

They are not
imaginary but
accessible only
intermittently.

It’s taken everything to bring them here: 
the peaches, grapes, oysters, the goblet of 
wine, the table & cloth. 

The water level
comes up when
you throw in
stones, bricks…

Is it rude to tell men you don’t
            love them just the idea of them

The mind 
likes the squeeze 
of chutes and channels.

Things of my world, thwart, solid, chockablock,
That I was wont lightly to wield and dandle,
Now, button-bungler, fool of lid, latch, lock,

sic on it, the cameras: witch-green greasepaint canopy—
pan down: the thick bamboo lattice
twine-bound—pan down: dirt with rags to gag up,