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1
To be fair, the poet swallowed canticle whole,
the s sounds filing into his mouth.
2
City disappearing
into amber. Vilnius, choice of climbing to the Three Crosses.
My lisp pulled his song schemes open with both hands, asking
3
for empathy. Without a hesitance, I could not
empathize. There was no such thing as
a forerunner's waltz, no high leaps in cellophane.
4
My little sister's lungs do not ever shrink. I am jealous
that my sputum will always be sickly green, that by
inverse of happenstance, I do not breathe as much. Siphoning
5
aerosol pipes into my mouth. Dancing on the fat ants of the folded
cobblestones, inverted leap and air. Girls from Old Town wiped my sadness
6
for me, and I made the transition to a closed position. The man took
hold of me below waist; in these counts, we had fingered obscenity,
fear being that longer step sprung close to the ground.
7
Recoiling from the hands, I kept talking because he was an important contact.
There was no whiteness or romance; I steadied myself
for the spring, two songs and a leap. I was folded into his
spinal six-eight time, six-
8
eight. Two songs and a leap.
If form was not sincerity at each measure, my poet would take
away from me. On the second beat there was a longer step.
Opening wide, I filled his song settings. I could not be held.
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