The gargle of water through the pipes
The rattle of water in the ceramic tub,
and the day is washed off, but what's clean?

A long silk
is pulled quickly
over my upturned palms

The unsigned architecture of loneliness
is becoming taller, finding a way farther
above the horizontal flowering
of the Cold War, the peonies

The frail smoke and virtues of the season blind 
us, almost with hands, and which of us can instruct 
the other now? I will have to find your body 

A day too large for the summer, standing up
out of the bus lanes, puzzled on its face
like the miniaturist who becomes famous

The near past and the near future are poor,
with no accession of hands, no bright legs—
useless, untender absences with bronze torsos.

At dawn, in that uncertain time,
As restless as the earth to bear
The new late rain, I walk knee-deep 

Sinking my teeth deep into you,
I feel no guilt.
You knew I was coming.

These are the problems which inhabit the imagination
Tincture of opium, redolent eucalyptus balm
The constituent order fails

"Nothing he had done before
   or would try for later"
         will explain or atone