Because they’ve forgotten they’re slaves,
the man and woman are lying in bed,
windows open, curtains closed. Outside,
an enormous variety of birds, none
saying remotely tweet. Hacksaw underwater,
little helpless-without-you.
On one hand they’re two gods agreeing
to appear entirely human, on the other
there’s no agreement at all.
Under all these bandages, where’re
the pharaohs? Alternately, they sit,
arch, phosphoresce, satellite upon each other,
their masks so slippery with goo they smack
back onto the face, stinging it, bringing
tears to the eyes. Tears to the eyes
in the realm of the irreversible which means
here come the spurned others,
one he left crying, one she told the truth
and left shouting. They stick for a moment
to the walls like wet crepe paper
but then the sun scours them away.
In De Kooning’s big red picture,
there’s a slaughter of the visible
but the visible fights back and wins.
Because it wants to go on forever?
Silly thing that wants to go on forever.
And because they’re not sure if they’ll ever
wake, the man and woman are still lying in bed.
Black lacquer box full of jewels. A novel
with a forest fire at its core. Let’s
paint your kitchen tomorrow, says the man.
I’m already asleep, answers the woman
but then the phone rings and when they get up
to not answer it, there’s all this blood on the sheet.