Baby, What Kind of Help Do You Really Want?

Pleasure can be expressed in words, bliss cannot.
—Roland Barthes

It’s a question for a tailor,
a kerosene lip, outlined
fibrous branches fit
to the sky’s white lung.


[Brisk.] On the train
a listing agent
negotiates a closing.
Lake View Art Supply
desires the lost city,
organizing phantoms
over the rough street.


How satisfying to dream of
floating, at any moment to find
his long eyes again, the drifting
hood of a green aubade.


You indicate habits, prettier
drafts. Check them against
the bells of this business,
the specific “if” pinpointing
order. Think carefully:


not the familiar hand
itself, but the outline
of the familiar hand
rests on your head.


It’s warm and its weight is surprising.
You recall you wanted fire, a tutor.


Wait. What you’ve written
so far is grand, is next, rising
out of history like a scandal,
a suggestion, a wet necklace.

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