WHAT THE GLOVE SAID

I am silken and wholesome.

Sometimes in the night I am seen shaking.

Jackals bay in the littered alleys but I pay them no mind.

I am concerned with the skin of nearness.

Between one tooth and another, the iron passivity.

I disgorge hands and sleep. I eat and wake.

Such prey as use me never tell their names.

I am fond of wordless proverbs.

Love is a roof of rain and a habitation.

Such tears I wipe would stun the bilious world.

My dance is with the air.

I hide and disclose like a poem.

FINGERED
 
 
 
What's the use of me pointing
 
if you won't look. You
 
are indexed under a thumb.
 
 
 
I can get to you.
 
Don't let it happen.
 
Come!
 
 
 
hanging around under low ceilings,
 
when the heat's on.
 
Watch me.
 
 
 
I slip in, easy as oil,
 
twisting and teasing till the job is done,
 
finger on throttle.
 
 
 
It's not what you think it is
 
when you look.
 
It's what you feel matters.
 
 
 
I'm armed, all the way up
 
in a brown study. I'm in.
 
Got and tossed away your number
 
 
 
I am too fond.
 
I am too quick.
 
& am manipulable by pain.
 
 
 
I am new strength in the yellow broom.
 
I work at loose things.
 
I steam the water.
 
 
 
It's an easy stroke,
 
a darkening, as sin becomes
 
indicated in silence.
 
 
 
I'll do it if you're clever at me,
 
swinging by hand from the ceiling joist
 
while a floor drops away beneath tethered feet.