I will not go to the women
for they are few and far away.

When I arrive I close the door, holding the lock’s chain
in my hand. Face the closed door, lid of the peephole

A small patch of light defines
your body like a plate-glass window.

I wane to imitate their moral blister; I want to be full of
the pus of inaction. Safe friends, patterning themselves

Sitting on a park bench, he knows what’s silly,
music and the unexplainable riffs,

Long moments of silence that oddly resembled
the tablecloth, guests in a
kinship of guests.

Some loved their camels more than their
Own brothers. One of them once bit
A live crocodile. One fell stupidly in love

I don’t think you could have called it
A true tongue until the forty-first night

I remember her floating face in her mother’s arms
A lightly powdered football wrapped in pink

Would the waves cover her husband as she did?
Were the many-colored sea gods beautiful?