Grudge Pastoral
Edge 1
My feelings are hard as a beautiful
kidney. They jiggle
the rivets. They make a romp of
this busty throng, this lacuna
of sense, this me
stealing away in the winking angle
of your wale.
Edge 2
Because underneath my pants I am wearing
stockings and underneath those a sappy lacy
thing and underneath those just my skin evening
out for one last round on the house.
Because you take all of these off and stare
at the rabid gaga I hold out for you.
Because it is woozy, how I hold myself
out, how abashed, how I pretend
I have pockets and then check them
twice (the trick here prone
as the depth of your hand).
Edge 3
You deadbolt. I chastity
belt. You buckling
anchor. I torch another.
You start in your sleep.
Time pinches back to the marring
moment: I : crush : you.
Edge 4
How abashed should a predator
be? I predate her. If this ditz stint
is through, I will make a feral
fuckery of you.
Hasp Pastoral
Edge 1
I am annually arranged.
You solder my wrists to the morning’s slow hinge.
I come to be more than just a goosy tether.
You take and you take me to an undercover place.
I wipe out beneath the woven rim.
You delight in the purple fixture of me.
I turn another color.
Edge 2
My trick punch. My bum smile. My soddered
and still-sticky. My indexed perennials. My pedals
need oil. My mischief in the kitchen. My android
of desire. My vaulted breast-stuff. My bedtime
lure. My throe in the wrong. My throw me a bone.
My fastening. My suture. My crooks bluff-high.
Edge 3
In the ever-demoning
lap of midnight, you start
to elaborate: I am coming
unsewn—thoughtlessly—a show pigeon
of screwy measures. All the answers
to this hitching are in the fret of the thing,
but I hem and haw, sleight-caught.
You abet and abet, even when love
is the subject.
Edge 4
This is the end of my appeal.
When I make a hook of myself
the sky turns the yellow
of three-day bruises. I give you the whole
snare of me.
