by Rachel Wetzsteon

Yes I know what it’s from, and so do you,

when after some bird makes a sound outside

you speak of drowsy numbness, and I shoo

the thought away and claim the thing that cried

is day’s lark, warming up to travel far.

So carve your chicken, talk to someone else;

our words are getting friendly at the bar,

our legs are making finite parallels….

And is it strange, this cluttered way of talking?

I’ve always been a sucker for the charms

of influence, benigner form of stalking.

So many clothes you’d think us free from harms!

But layers bring a fine heat, not a numbing.

Now pass the wine and keep the good lines coming.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

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