a woman in a white nightgown hovers sleeping
from a red wall over a red bed
as a walkway to a half-red moon

a pale leaf with a flickering red eye
has a stem of rootlets
flickering the way lightning

no boom-boom / just drip-drip

how she loves the lurid red surges
the two fat black figures counter

two clamshells clapping together

Shakespeare, his right index finger raised
to make a point

no rips, no tears

the remaining matches in an open matchbook

sorry, but no cigarette ash

nearly a phone call a few mornings ago
2 o’clock here then 3:15 . . . 4 . . . 5:30

active waiting (as for a publisher’s response),
active prayer (playful prayer, too),
active listening

not yet exactly sure
“Why stop at six . . . why not go for twelve?”

no matter how much I might desire)
peering off into the abyss

2nd-Day legal-pad epistle again

“Thee watch out
for those Eastern liberal women!”

Jo, Emily, Beth with the gold nose ring
then a blur, for now

not knowing quite Agamemnon’s role
with nothing heavier than a sweater on

why don’t you like wine



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