lust poem no.31

bedroom scene no.3

there is the air
poured
from stale radiator to pool
over bare skin
and open sill.

there is the lament
of a passing train
this side the river. there
is firewood stacked
beside the door, but no

goddamn snow.
it weighs like the hesitation
in her eyes that he
can’t see: that she
is tired of sad poems,

their puckered footsteps like
icefall on the second day
of spring. all ragged clouds
& slush & cold
metaphor. her skin

is forgetful. his hands
are on the small of her.
they weigh like silence,
like stone, like
remembering, brim

with words left
over which long
for un-houred mondays, for
un-hung evers, un-strung lives,
for words which long.