We bare ourselves
as the teeth of a mad dog.
Peeling the day's knots
from skin, we leave clothes vulnerable
to the wine-stained carpet
you've promised to clean
for months.
The minute hand has only
moved about four degrees; it seems
we have been here
forever.
Agreeing, the window
fogs: two young coconut trees
sway in the backyard.
Thighs clap.
You tell me to call
your name
but words buckle, and
my tongue hangs
like a moon without stars.











27 old applause
