world turns a bitter yellow as i stumble
upon an empty fortress built by suburban commandos.
& through algae-lensed eyes i spy lace & steam
you’ve got to make sure word reaches the others
i spilled sap on her belly & she said she didn’t mind
so i accused her of love.
on the stand, salty-eyed, pled guilty
and didn’t come back for a year
or so she offered.
everyone needs a nauseously uneasy answer,
but the guesses keep rolling in
as if on auburn tides
a metaphor – a good, right, damned metaphor
for love
is a tight, squealing, crusty curtain,
drawn by hands searing with selfish anger
or blind admiration.
27 april 1993