I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling
we live in a debt growing country.
Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse. Blousy
threads & too much sex belong in one pile.
It’s a good look except for soy containers suspended from a branch bow: cowslips
& top limbs drooping synthetic blood over your chest ::

When stairwells mesh & go nowhere either side
between you & your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in artificial druthers.