The way a telephone number compresses
under eyeless habit so the edges
become familiar with handles
which I use
to lift you up...
things like that now sequence
into the impressive riddle of your image.
an actual desert expands to fill
the blank between us,
digits emerge bearing steel rakes
meant to brush me religiously
into a Roman saint.
I won't stand for this
though I can vaguely hear you articulating
defensive positions from the pink
lines of your chamber bedroom
how you strike this pose and truly become
a terrible general maneuvering squares of men
across ancient battlefields
(and war elephants, too...)
even so despite all of this, I distill a reality
of shit into an image:
you're on that bed,
treating simply the vanilla-red cusp of hair
which you love in horsehair strokes.
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