|
open up till midnight |
|
the butcher waits for someone's desperation |
|
that goes beyond control |
|
speaking is an invitation |
|
under fluorescent lights |
|
you can't wash out his desire |
|
where bodies are indecent |
|
and they are not in decline |
|
from behind the counter he thought you whispered you want more |
|
cut out the brights of the oncoming cars on the highway |
|
lightness is forced when you cut out the lines in the paper |
|
cut the split seconds |
|
the ones over-filled |
|
when you thought you were caught with unknowable thrills |
|
instead you get absence |
|
soft haze in the face |
|
the lines in your head have to all be replaced |
|
cleave the dry stone to a promise |
|
that an answer soon will follow |
|
grave attention is still focused |
|
on the flashlight and the cold fortune |
|
down the streets on prospect |
|
the butcher walks home |
|
orange in the streetlight |
|
even knows it in the dark |
|
proves it with his eyes closed |
|
he puts his red coat downstairs |
|
goes up into his bedroom |
|
undresses and folds his arms |
|
as if it could impress you |
|
from under the covers he thought you whispered you want more |
