Tender
Lord, how that April mugged us,
its two fists full of fresh, wet things,
and me grabby, and you gripping wrought iron,
topped with malformed fleurs-de-lys.
That English of yours – careful, silvery –
you let a little history drop.
It made you almost unfuckably
tender. But not quite. Not then.
Bright L, vague diphthong, an extra breath –
Läh-,
Läh,
Lähde
– meaning
fountain,
or spring, or source – or some such thing, loosed
unstuttering from a firm, clean earth.
These nights I wedge my gut to the mattress-side.
Snores slide like pine-cones between my teeth.
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