His intentions remained secret
Among the vociferous others who posted
Imprecations in the church’s chat room, drawing

I think, sometimes, of how you blocked
The future, as if it were a scene, and wrote it
In a letter before you drove all night through snow.

It is gravitas, the gray of quarry stone, the burden
of the middle plane, the moving toward the heavy hour
the angels come, bearing grief whose name is benediction.

The leaves are curled like fingers from which the wrist
Is broken. The X-rayed wrist in four parts, with a
                                                                                        triangular island

It is called Trent or Noel
for the most beautiful girl
turning woman on the continent.

This right eye establishes
grounds for consistency.
He’s a burr I can’t get rid of.

The cars are yellow and green and black.
Cement is gray. My car quit
three years ago. I junked it.

He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.

Don’t take me home, at least not yet;
Let’s have another drink, and sit
and talk—I want to be your woman,

I ask you to stay.
Here in my head I ask.
You don’t know I’m asking,