three smooth pens
melted and bent,
to form a Celtic circle
a soft one, a slimy one
a radio voice
in the other room
metallically Orpheus,
the shower drain stops up
with her hair, her
homunculus, marble bath
comfort in strange,
estranged spaces, put-off
dink, dinks,
like a dimple in glass
faces, multiple scenes
listening to
dink, dink,
all time comes to a ssss
top
with simple pleasures
of silence, three mouths, three opals,
the lip inside of an opal
the infinite blush
unamplified but heard
by the silence, all our vibrations
have to end up
somewhere
with her: the one who is yearning
but won’t need to say it,
the only who is comfortable
as not the poet but
the poem, she assumes