Sunday, January 13, 2008


Before we touched the turnable brass of our door
we were as ourselves and our own, as unscathed as
two laughing seafoam virgins.
I should have known by its knobby coldness, by
the ricketful mumbling and the way the door stuck
on a newly-finished house, but I suppose we were too
much whitened or too very filled with dinner even to
consider any suspiciousness.
What was seen next was suddenly, we knew
both, no longer ours we had expectedly and previously
had--the overturned
pillows, one melodramatically slashed
as if the newly-furnished living room itself was
haunted by some disorganized ghost of a
And even when the realization did dawn
(dawned more like an eclipse, or a foggishly
disorienting sunset), and when I was put on hold
and the air was filled with your most congesting quiet,
so that I had to open a cracked window pane,
before I spoke through a kind of
repressed sunkenness, pretending to be someone
most other than myself, one who had not felt
taken himself, as if owning
endowed one with its own kind of personness
or respect,
and even days later
when we had, with a listless untalkable solemnity
sorted and tallied all unfindable
evidences of the shared rape--
even then, strangely, I mourned not at all for
those many absented trivialities,
or the stillness which had fallen
on this broken house,
but only
for the unnamed and unnamable
man (who appears to me gray and moustached
when he appears; average) I never will know,
with a world-wearying accumulation,
offering others' thin materials on some
desperately pagan altar,
both thief and victim, unknowingly losing himself in
his poignant, childish plight for gain.

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