Upstairs --

the knives gleam, unwitting, sterile

solutions; unformed

heat -- we follow her

up the stairs and into the windswept bedroom, there

where reflections long left in oblong mirrors

wait for us

to cut a tune, revolve about all those drunken sailors and

peg-leg inquisitors -- surrendering a sudden

infamy for a close-communion, we

bake away the days in hunger, in opal-eyes

misting, we feel the force

of the fan cooling the room, we lean toward each other and

kiss, there, once

on the cheek for good measure . . .

*