A cornershop, a pinpoint,
a belief in said spirit
for the cigar to come along
and paint us down –
We should be so historical,
so lucky and reckless in love,
hormonal in prejudice
that the gender selected
equates a preference.
You write me without
my dining clogs,
my ambling rapport
on the weather and trenches
I come across
to clarify peasants gone by,
satisfy dance requirements
stomping tile blue floors
in my etched-light disguise.
Eat clues for epidemic
memory, spreading. We
ourselves infect, flowering
with sin and perfection. It’s
calculated, this depth of religion.
As with all things, my tiny
arabesque disintegrates and faith
suspends our masks within
the sultan’s leafing vocabulary.



As a bit of dirt and pattern through
the windshield sky, just so misery
weeps the details of rainfall vision.
Hospital posture, not mournful decay, it’s
close to dinner time in Spain, portions
were declared, when Gaudi wept.  A termite
colony practiced unified contrition and built
a boat for counterdebt. Backs bent over, shaping
from the shapes of things. Not replica soldiers
but recreation. Not rattrap but distant witness. 
You are the effect of faraway trains. You want
no problem – with independence. But what
of desire and her hapless mists. How often
have I been the pinafore about your body,
opera to opera. She speaks the candle’s flame,
repenting. She owes to budding sorrow her
puzzle space working off the land, a tearful
persuasion: rose petals dry in room-built corners. 
Overhead rafters seek misinformation, ready
to collapse. Mother Time, make our days
agree, politely my request brewed in tea
and sympathy, as best that I can taste it.



A woman sits across the fog, drifting doll
dressed in a landscape of disputes, wars
of anger playing circular romance. 
Sleepy riders dream together subway events
by making eyes through their souls’ human
flesh licking stranger skin, rubbing against. 
Dub voices over, fake first attempts. She
longs to lie down in greenish pastures,
to turn brown at her edges, pale and flat. 
She lives this ride in other countries: 
small streets called alleys, cafes for wine
and coffee. A fingertip damp with pulse
moves toward her lap, falling sanguine
on a map of “Destiny’s Trace.” Wooden door
of her face swings wide to read what is written,
“Inked-over person resides and drifts within.” 
         © Amy King 2004