and high-up, as in a ship's crow's nest.
A dancer, you had tassles on your tits
ferris-wheeling: one left, the other right,
hung in the blue light, nipples bleeding
--and our eyes
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as if by
lightning stung--
wasn't a man in the house wasn't dying
for you, not one derelict or soldier
'cept me who bought bourbon like cotton candy.
viii
I've seen your fisted elsewhere eyes before,
the stillness of, the grace of your waitressing:
Mona Lisa, Apple of my Eye, Jane
behind your face of sweet distress
lies a toughened gentleness
weary and full of what long caring?