Foreshortened, that web of flesh spanning
knuckle to thumb, meek allower of
opposition, loose and fragile in

That which rings and spins, that which is broken
and between, lingers behind the curtain. We were
a family business: My father, top and tails, sawing

Southern France, the troubadour age:
all these men running around in frilly sleeves.
Each is looking for a woman he could write a song about—

Whatever it is, it is not rotten yet:
This is death caught while it still looks good
like the bird right after the window smack

And I, not hearing the spirit about which
my master, as one in opium, would go
to his end dreaming, wrapped the skeleton

My index finger nestles in your hand.
You run a penknife’s blade beneath the nail.
Discomfort is a thing we understand.

At the same table, in the same taverna
he waited for the boy to return.
At the table every night with cognac and cigar,

More than the eyes looking back at you
More than the voice quelled in the throat
More than the bed and eider quilt beneath the window

The best Buddhas blaze, inert, in Boston;
they shine like babies in a bath
because Bostonians are bitter

Stuff my eyes with clouds.
   Dangle tender mites above my lashes till
      the lids go lank