Bleeding this into that
(Pointillism)
Still dripping, the lead from
The man who loved you
so much he started rowing
holds you in an Iowa cornfield.
You’ve watched the sun set for a quarter,
watertower and bells scuttle the distance
between tremors. Batteries charged in your little radio,
a draft from the window tells you it’s still broken.
—Or so you feel in the gallery
adding lagoons to the Isle of La Grande Jatte
when he meanders into your backside.
“Look—”
—and maybe he bites your hand, goes,
“softer.”