We didn’t see it as wrong –though we knew

something was off

the way our spy trial started

which is what this passage most resembled


lying in wait like a runaway prisoner

out to haunt the warden’s daughter

though still too lame


to take the first step. Right from the start

every play was anticipated

–every made move shunted into


pink corrals where their surfaces collided

and canceled each other out

–till someone

in the chapter house discovered she too


had a pornographic calling  

and could warmonger as naked as the best.

With an ear for all the forms 

of heat and confinement:  Nausicaä.





Out from the shore at an angle, the fading

image of crow shadowing the water.


We never imagined our legs juxtaposed

with so much Atlantic sun.  


Morning wandered, an aimless tour bus

its destination, a street-corner nook:

one turn and no breakfast.


The jackanapes suckled. Told time lying. 

We lost sight of land


spent time in leapfrog and foreplay:

games by any other name:  water cadence.





And we should’ve been able to turn this

wrist with a hatpin, this lip


with a smile, but trouble lives in the wake  

of all such nubile thought.

And skin has only a thing-in-itself


–as if there could have been a difference

where the politics of evasion is

nullified with a head stroke, turned


sideways on an unfamiliar tree, tossed

in a blanket like a nonconsenting


sidekick till a hand could be lifted

and a ligament untied, and all the winged

smells of apodictic  


values could be rendered   categorical.

What are you looking for?