With heavy BREATHING as (faithfully) her lownecked
throat — something in how her 19th century dress little
topples and expands. Emily Dickinson?
One small foot squared /mired in silk\ wrinkling lost
asking me: how we are here now \ i slowly within
sun-drenched ponderous arms bedecked /time travels —
whose white thick wrist deliver prompoty
to a deep lap of enormous mindless HEART.
How i never believe i now but always in “how”
and how she tells me i need no other lover :
i won’t leave her now/ how i believe her now \
asking me how i believe in her love — i say
“i don’t know oh i don’t know” how?
something in the way she knows. And all i have
to do is think of her — it’s what she shows
me. I believe in “how.”
What I believe in how.
:: 10.24.2021 ::