A week of nonnegotiable fantasy, days
of unmovable image—in a locked room,
against a door, in front of the window.
I, of course, am wearing a skirt, stockings
holding onto my thighs. You look
and then look down. You think
what you think. There's only this table
between us—a slight expanse
of wood and steel, file cabinets,
note-taking. You rely on me
and I you, not to. But I'm undependable
with the right kind of pressure.
I look outside at the land you love
clearing its throat, preparation
for singing. We have an understanding.
A bridge arches over the river, river
rises to meet it, pigeons fly out
from the dark underneath, and starlings
rise and fall in parabolic sweeps, glissandos
drawn from architecture and math, music
almost impossible to play.
Salmon Poetry / Dufour Editions