Diminuendo

Year of margarine burnt
in the pan, year of reaching
for the lotus-flower, the tulip.
Of decline and indulgence,
deprivation. Year of kick-coil,
star stab. Year of bruise of scratch,
shout, of scream, of shove.
Year of tearduct, eyelash, opening.
Year of opening. Year of opening.

I want the truth of one rib and one finger.

Weak the heart thrusts forward,
body begging for its nest bed,
eggs swelling. Nobody kisses me
at midnight the moon is a scuffed
plate of 18th century china unearthed
by the rain from the backyard,
astonishing. And so promising
we forget about our buttons, and if the ring
is in your ear for the love of G-d please
help me to hear it.
There it goes, there it goes. There. Now lean.