— PLATE XCVII —
exclusions and exceptions. All so you might return when the breeze swallowed your bones and the
— PLATE XCVIII —
bristles became danger, that I might hold you and pretend myself in silence not for the ears what was of
— PLATE XCIX —
my making that I could account for. When our eyes shut what I was free to do, and the coil cooled, and I
— PLATE C —
provided an assured way back to warmer hours. In the meantime, that strain you felt, the bruises that
— PLATE CI —
appeared, the marks I made, we allowed. To allow is to want. And I might have sustained you into
— PLATE CII —
wanting what you needed. Froth into foam, into shells, that I pelt at your body. Engulfed along the
— PLATE CIII —
thigh hidden by the love for what we saw in you. That warmth I stretched out from you, for us. That
— PLATE CIV —
recovery I let slowly fade. Until you became the loving system. Could you have allowed such efficiency
— PLATE CV —
had you not begun to need it? What would you have done if there had been no way to manage this
— PLATE CVI —
enterprise? That burning branch, the starved well, the tied root. Them and you, allowing. Such kind
— PLATE CVII —
giving bodies. So shapely even when unfurled, remains to ruin. The errant stench, the lasting line, that
— PLATE CVIII —
spirit there. Appraised by the growing needs and the appetite not for the mouth. Drink some more. I
— PLATE CIX —
will let on. Place your tired body into the perfect stillness I wrap you in. I have these little kinds of turns
— PLATE CX —
of phrase droning on. The whir budding into a cadence most unlike itself. Find its order, tell me where it
— PLATE CXI —
loops. Thrust yourself in your suspicion, figure it out. Who's ploy ? that is .. it seems. Grow deeper
— PLATE CXII —
inward, suddenly say less. Allow me. hold back. Lovely hood, fitting apron. Do not dirty what I have
