Why waste what dignity remains on song
    when like fugitives we kneel before the pulse

    of succulent engines in the vineyard of wing-
    beat of empty hands, desires, loose

    heat of plenty, unfulfilled, seeking still
    in afternoon caesura? Why conjure a circle

    or let the arms of night enfold us until
    nacreous, somnolent we confess: the soul

    has strayed too far. Why sing at all
    my love, my love, my love, my love, my love,

    while our poverty like a chasm deepens and we fall
    and so falling, die? Against me splintering why move?

    Your mouth answers the only way it knows how:
    a single kiss, no words except for now.

Copyright © Erica Anzalone, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.