A key lime pie for a quilt
And a cotton tuft for breakfast
On the kitchen tile, we awake late
To find our loopy stomach
And a just hang-over clinging; . . .
[And so now my thumb is split at the joint,
What, for writing all this parlour-room poetry?
Parloir, parloir,- 'nous parlons de rien']
. . . Sing our new morning psalm, a still
Reserve, no ripples, a rationale for getting the words
Until the mottled and drippy day
Simply puts pressure lines on our backs, on the back of our neck
And frets, simply sighing a just defeat.
-For this time, write no more of this poetry for women,
No more of these simple parlour tricks in play:
Beat the poemed ploughshares into swords
For all these ugly days of reckoning;
For slithering horrors brood just beyond the women
Just outside the parlour,
Pooling on these doors.
-r
