Classic Poem

— A foreshortened arm, a breast, a cage of pigeons built from sticks.
— So we're dying or something.
— It's the " something " that I'm interested in, shiny as new money or water's perfect coin.
— You're the kind of girl taxi drivers make faces at.
— I'm the kind of girl who watches one bird sail in open sky, who sips tea in the airport and notices your movements, your luggage.
— What about that stack of severed heads nearby, the tongues blackened, blood puddled?
— That kind of girl, too.
— A girl who sweats great circles under her arms. Who are you actually talking to?
— I was not happy and today I became happy.
— Don't forget how an old man warms his back in the sun.
— Ink dribbles down my chin and stains my lips.
— An old man in the sun and his thoughts pulled low like a hat, the brim disguising his eyes.
— Out there great gray bodies twist in the sea.
— He leans and watches the children play soccer while shadows lengthen.
— All undiscovered the place where it rains, or where great bodies dive and moan.
— Quiet as the casks where grapes dream.
— You open your eyes to the same room and sun drifts simple shafts across the bed.
— Everything going fast like a ripe tomato with a split in its side.
— Rain in the alley, on the air conditioner. Clean streets, wet garbage.
— That kind.
— Our lot narrow and deep.
— Each night the stars burn like whiskey, blurred like a headache.
— I've found what seems a silence holds traffic hum, voices calling, the smell of supper cooking, someone scuffing their feet.
— And the slapping sound of sex.
— The scrape of insect wings, the exhalation of breath.