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In an empty nursery we’ll talk
lightly of thunder and trains chugging by
outside, of toes stepped on
on ballroom
tiles of cerulean and gold,
the walls’ tasseled rugs hanging
their fringe to the floor. So we’re clumsy,
but it’s okay. The day was full
of nakedness and of being exposed
on a grand scale: there is a stage,
and in its center is a bed of glass. Clear
glass, blue and green glass, brown glass,
all of it fresh. The audience compels
us to make love on it, and we do.
It does not hurt. Earlier, a sidewalk sweeper
hummed a tune we couldn’t quite place.
Of course,
it hurts.
And a match burned down to our fingertips.
But we don’t worry, everything will
be okay—we can think about it
with our eyes closed, when all we can see
is a weak blackness or a little orange: that’s
a beating
heart, but the pill bug
balled in the corner has no light.
Only armor. It’s impressive,
how much
we have
in common with insects.
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