Jun 22, 2006 09:06
We can decide the chronology later -
imagining
his routes, the way his frames
filled doorways, psychotic gestures or
petting the parrot,
vocals big between gaping black vents
in the floor she thinks were made in 1923,
her pinky pointing with the
pursed thought, and small through walls
the police calls and on our backs
in the basement closet,
in the sequences of our waiting - and unfold
our night terrors with
the birds at dawn singing tunes of dread
Gushy and frightened pulling tones
into the doctrine of Guilt;
we wrinkle again.
Empty pocketbooks
gathering and contracting face muscles
getting older.
The lips,
the brow pucker, you ask about the little dog,
Is he dying?
I say, no more than you or me.