That the wound had never been
its vast geography, red terrain forming

Does the erotic exist outside architecture? The shepherd 
asleep, the shepherd awake—his staff in his hand. Sweet 
are the fields of. Exiled from home am. A sandwich of 

She puts her ticking wrist to her ear and hears a house
Full of Tock from the clock that is lacking a stem.

No talking in the grass, only persistent scars
where cheek lay to hear
a sound: the distilled conversation

Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.
She and the child that wouldn’t have been but was now

But quiet was a difficult thing to be.
The heart makes a jump-start sound.

Some days, everything is a machine, by which I mean 
remove any outer covering and you will most likely 
find component parts: cogs and wheels that whir just 

It was now a matter of waiting
for the haughty naughty beguilement of warmth.

The long-suffering sofa. A circular scene: the bull enters
the ring. The myth of man’s disobedience.

And what shall we drink? Water from rivers
risen by snow that was desperate to melt?