Issue 160, Winter 2001
The sky is full of bleating lambs
which bob above us. The rains flood
our apartment. Here no word exists
for pail no word for help.
You say I don't, I don't—
your mouth keeps moving
long after the sound stops.
There's no kindness to you now.
A small patch of light defines
your body like a plate-glass window.
I say, How can anyone not know
how to fold toothpaste?
I come to love only the night
and sounds of the orbiting lambs.