|© Beth Roberts|
Having opened to your face closed up in sun
glasses once, I raze the news daily for more of you.
These days it's pornography mainly, moth vs.
the light, the question being who lied
and who lies still. I've learned from headlines giving
head and the heads of state we'd better be either
bug or divine to survive with a semblance of being seen.
I must have failed you, hence the glasses and fabric
ated name of a girl running along
the edge. I would think such a thing, lying
as it occurs, I make my day a cursed
Sunday, no church, no meal, I get you
from the news, the same sky mud-slinging
among us, gibbous, dog stars, all laughing
at us at once and the same place. Hence you're
on the east or west coast, and nowhere
between, face blue from the twitching
screen, thinking mostly--I see it
like a sunspot--of a world emptied out of a box
by sex, debriefed population all alone with their parts
and wondering. And now the moon,
with whom we share a responsibility.
And now the silence, the ticks in the walls and tick-
tock toward the light. So you see how I long
for you, prurient in the ribs of the hired hound,
slight sycophant fattening on absence.