You sly devil. Lounging in a Pinter script
or pitched from a transit van’s, rolled-down, window; 
my shadow on this unlit road, though you’ve been
smuggled from polite conversation. So when
a friend of a friend has you poised on his lips
you are not what he means, no call for balled fist,
since he’s only signifyin(g) on the sign;
making wine from the bad blood of history.
Think of how you came into my life that day,
of leaves strewn as I had never seen them strewn,
knocking me about the head with your dark hands.