Issue 58, Summer 1974
When you pressed two rings,
the one larger than the other,
into my tongue, you crushed my hunger.
Two brass rings:
ornaments, curatives, punishment,
what’s the difference,
pain swims for a microscope.
The rings around Saturn swim too,
a girdle of mist which hurts space.
I had nothing more to say to you either.
There was too much pain
in the region of speech.
Shrimp, lemon, garlic, oil, wine and smoke:
all these given up
for two round ornaments, which clacked
on my tongue like knives of palm.