I know the formula, too, for we
all speak it as litany

              our

issuance, at
issue, to issue, the
issues . . .

little bored innuendoes
of loss retard the veins

a shark’s redented grin
is mounted on the wall above
the motto “I prosper in peril”

I fasten like a martyr on a scrap
of irrelevance to endure

stylized I consulted the
coloured moon about tomorrow’s storm
& the clouds ruptured veinous, as
black ooze began to spread

            I saw
the slim fleche of a pine
blur with wind-beaten grace
on the dead power wires

saw your fingers were scoured
& worried to the quick, saw the
irrevocable in us make
a congruence to unify & die

                undue as death
she comes in, poignant with rain,
& sitting there in all
her numbing specialty, she rubs
paspalum that speckles her shoes, & the
thistle bobbins from her heavy skirt;

    ignores the room’s
    gloomy cold pastels, admires
    the mantelpiece, which holds
    ceremonious wealths of cognac
    & a sooty toffee tin.

you grip your hands on the couch
becoming pure obstacle, perhaps
craving pity, but without volition

        ludicrous, we are
the meeting points of a cadre, our
ontology is zonal,
military. You
secure nothing. Nothing
is fixed or graspable

you grip your hands,
but away from you,
nursing your armload
of unease

shrugging I work at least for the
stealthier fecundity
innate in misalliance

she samples sweets
& spirits like a guest