And when you are finally caught and questioned,
it is discovered, sadly, that you know

I introduce Penelope Gwin,
A friend of mine through thick and thin,
Who’s travelled much in foreign parts

We are serious in the same way,
my catalytic converter and I.

It’s hot in this red room,
inside the beating heart of the ritual, explosive

An unlit world knows nothing of desire,
said God to Adam, pointing to his hip;
The pleasure’s naming what you most require,

Spring again. Wet April calls the blue
from the sky, would give me names
for all the green things writhing from the earth’s

That winter. We missed her stark face
at work. Days till she was found, under

Whatever the great religions offer
it is afterlife their people want:
Heaven, Paradise, higher reincarnations,

Assembling unsheathed cloves of garlic
                on the butcher block,
                                shuffling through them

Why, before I jumped over, did I
                crouch down to stare
                                between the bars of the ninth-floor railing