Sunlight sang through the chick door's crack.
   And I heard her words,
         yet chose not to wake my brother,

The skeleton clicks, endlessly doubling
over in my hands. Damned things that steal soul
and flee. Mine, the son of a virgin father

For hours now the Last Supper has been over.
And the beating almost over, and morning’s cry
Yet to be heard by the workmen in the courtyard

Once it seemed possible, those boys
Peeking out of gun slits at the German line
Or on graves detail, wet, miserable,

Father’s books lying on the living-room floor
Must be divided into threes: art history,
Classical letters, and, left from my days here,

We offer each other a dark
brew. But we must drink.
A seduction is the setting up

This is what I love, the charged moment,
the moment of revelation, intimacy,
the words in italics To let someone know

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?
They both seem so much older now than lean

A man makes a film. 
He is a Jew, a midwestern
Jew, from Cincinnati.

So bondage is a big part of it, after all—
that old art of rendering a lover submissive:
a tactic, a strategy. Denying somebody’s body