A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges

I’m alone until I’m asleep, and there you are: naked, you take my hand:Shhhh! We tiptoe through a black-blue meadow. To the pond behind the farmhouse. (The farmer sleeps in the blind window.) No cicadas even, maybe just maybe Venus — & this is before Wednesday, everything’s alright, we tiptoe ‘round the house as around a painful subject — & we’re at the pond! And now it’s time. To use vague holy-man speech, like: I am another face in your hand, the face of your eye — wing-surrogates, the word bones— it’s time for afternoon, them white-blank architectures. No, veil. Nothing’s glistening. Christmas, Christmas. It’s time for you to forgive me: I was forced to eat valises that wouldn’t close by themselves — that was just a dream, good morning: regurgitate the stars and the soot