Precipice
her apartment, not too far,
up a few flights, a few streets, not too far,
you go there one day
and that is your true love
the cat seeking you on the roof; the dark side
he has for you
or maybe it’s a slurry or
a thing unknown till now, a sweet onion you celebrate
or an elaborate sound, a brief and bitter rain
and also the bilge pump gone, with no notice
it’s gone brackish,
not even unseen
but no more loving patience,
the hiss which compels her
while her lips waver, to form the word,
is ancient
like roses=ancient
but no roses, or roses, something real
isn’t happening, something astonishing
that should be, that can’t even begin right
because it is Rowan, that is her bilge waters and fire
(and also her tense mouth watering in retreat, its tender pit)
and the whelps imagining the disgusting things you’ll do
because the vagabond
dismays her, grinning beneath you
his teeth are pointy
and oh in the shoulders the suburbs everyone does it
fuzzy
but not inside
(and not without some violence, the owls, you could go)