Sweet work in front of a mirror,
all the world behind in terror.
Neat work in thinnest shadow,
fall in the north, spring in the south.
Horses and jeeps, mired in snow,
balk or stall. Somewhere, a mouth
nurses open to create surprise,
clock in death a second time, lift
an eyelid. Harmless flirting eyes
summer in Puerto Rico, then shift.
Plan nothing, she thinks. Funereal
winter holds, an eye and window
frosted over. A blind sky's missile
landed here, a new season's show.
Clothed in night, the pale hands
keep the spittle-stippled
pages down from fan's updraft
afternoon's heated air
windows open as in church
pew-scent, eau de cement
"fuck" issuing forth
not to delicate tissue
but in and out of discourse
of each other, blanched
oval or axe-faced poet
loving face looking down
on luminous pages
splayed out hands