"I haven't written anything good in years"

she exclaims abstractly
to the man with the fingers on
her thighs

it was a simple thing for one
who knows Hamlet line by line
and the right way to wear fur

so it was her who sat with the
iredescent thighs from her mother
that he tried to rub, steal away

"It used to be a beautiful fact,
you and your words"
as he polishes the grey stone
of his yesterday lover

---

a.a. i dreamed of playing a cello