In Your Hands

Friday: I ride the

elevator up

to see

you, common

bird, allocated

to thundersnow

and wet

mornings. I want

my silence;

flight, her

solitaire court,

her airlifted

moving panties

high-lo

skirts, covers

down. Brass,

I chew up

and swallows.

Playing House

You, with the bully

coat, and you, chewing

big black shoes, my soft

black stockings, any hap-

hazard hope. Scents of

sweet squirrel, slurpy

yam, interstate rainwater

bowls. Sounds of

calm down, disposal

hum and canyon hearts.

Can’t we pant together?

Can’t I call this enough?