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This is not the birds twittering |
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but the tape bending around |
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the heads from a warble to a hiss. |
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How many times have you listened to this song today? |
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"two baby aspirin, two sips of gin |
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and the time it takes |
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to rewind 'Something On Your Mind' |
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on the reel to reel to reel |
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and I'll be there." |
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...to find you splayed out, unlaced again. |
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Oh, my lazy matador, without a stitch |
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but for a part in your hair. |
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You smell of smoke and spearmint, |
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like changing rooms, |
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unbridled afternoons |
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and horseplay and towel-whips |
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and bathing suits rolled down off sunless hips, |
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the dizzy, patterned floor under bare feet. |
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I'm barely-there but heavy, |
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heavy, shallow hiccuped breaths. |
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The Pianese are budded out and bound to bloom, |
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the lazy plumes of smoke, |
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the twittering of the birds, |
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the smell of spearmint and |
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your convincing but unconvincing argument. |
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"Tell him that it's only a pinprick. |
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Tell him that it barely broke the skin. |
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Tell him that you're home but still tender. |
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In the retelling, let it be rendered |
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just a pinprick, just a puncture, just a scratch." |
