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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.