Friday, August 20, 2010

Do not sit on the folding table


Do not sit on the folding table


I lay there instead/ The sun's breath

slides down my hip/ Things made

clean/ I wait, watch eyes


churn in rounds, one way/ Then

heaving, the next

They can’t make up their minds


No, machines don’t seek balance


The slick edge, the dam freed

over, the baptism of stains—


They’re programmed/ By those

still, with desire

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