I held her not well, didn’t
            hold her well, jumped
my gaze from one eye to her other,
            seeing neither, pinned one
deadwood arm that numbed, then
            fell. I held her unwell.

The veneer headboard bent, wavered,
            its false grain a-swim like
the clean code on a wave-washed
            shell. To not be present is hell –
no, to remember having been absent;
            indisputably bodily there, legs,

lungs, teeth, and all, but watching oneself
            watching oneself holding her –
and not well. She hung in the sling of two
            arms where from greed and lust and good
greed the good go down clawing, calling up
            at their own image calling into a well.

Not well I held her, yet she still I full well.