She’s alone, only it's like she’s
spinning on top of a music box. The
ache comes from the deeper part
of the river, it enters her heart like
a boat passing over sunk wood.
A seed dissolves in a glass of red
wine, her white dress is aflame
in sunlight, and the smell of tomatoes
and dirt rinses out of her hair
under a bright cloud standing beside a
half moon, shovels just dropped
on the lawn, three sneezes in a
row, that taste like ground aspirin . . .
Or she’s not exactly spinning, she thinks,
as much as falling, as when you
lever over a naked man’s body—his flesh,
the bed, the floorboards, the bedrock . . .
Dancing past the low light of dawn,
it seemed doors were swinging open for her
and then the dew evaporated, young men
with cloth knots at their throats, walking away,
in parish after parish every morning.
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