Take that hand away, the hand
washing like small warm stones along my neck

There’s a donkey standing in the doorway,

The difficulties, in passion,
are not news: the knot at the throat,
the lipstick that smears, the skirt

So the hip rises, oh so slightly, in its golden socket
and music continues despite the dawn

The lion threw his head back and sang two notes like a veery

Check yellow. It must be kept for the center
of flowers and
other intense moments, not

Too late. The phone had stopped
ringing, but already the narrow bottle stood
on the table, the water in it reflecting
the rug on the floor as orange. Thinking

 An oval bed of nails held the arrangement in the half-light from an adjoining room, where perforations trained puffs of air against metal fingers to draw Brahms from the upright.

Cloud in front, sun in back
Atoms extended in space

The censorious

Goon flight.

Death defying darning, ambassadorial
clip mimic dazed proclivity almonds

exhaustion follows hard labor
also profligacy

strong wind breaks even the mightiest bow
and lots of us twigs on the way

even the most difficult path
is a beginning

every lie’s a kind of truth

truth is never sincere