In the lobby on the eleventh floor
of the courthouse where we’ve come to be wed
an upscale call girl lacquers her nails more
for the intoxicating fumes than red
so that, dismayed, the secretary who
leads us to the judge—clenching a bouquet
of legally binding forms—says, Can you
believe what people do? And I say no
and then I say yes and you and always
without taking off my coat. Out the window:
horizon of complicated freeways,
each leading somewhere, but mostly
throbbing at the knot; two pillars of factory
smoke, focused at first, lose their discrete
forms and diffuse into more gray sky.
Robin Wyatt Dunn
Pancakes meditate upon themselves
And I meditate upon the end,
Mother on the dishes.
Outside, sunlight is dreaming in a cousin-language.
In the dark subzero hours of early morning,
I have been woken up by yips & squeaks,
coyote pups trying to keep warm. I lie there
and listen, & then I am no longer the color of tears.
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