From the Archives: A Locality, 1995

A Locality  

The lovers       extracted 
Play miserable games of head 
And touch themselves remotely 
In bed.    

If the sun did not, no, if the moon did not  
Starcrossed      or blind— 
What communion could hold 
What sorry structures (albeit stone) we all become. 
If love could float, I thought 
         (if abstract ever became anything)    

People always move, and weddings
Happen.
            
     An instance of love 
     The line of subjects 
     The waste we’ve drawn 
Into ourselves—              
                       Song 
In two voices              overheard.