1260

TWENTY BLOCKS

Bicycles passing the backed-up cars,
A cat stepping along the puddled rift
Between the curb's metal lip and road,

Woman after woman turning up somewhere
On the scale of having-made-an-effort,
While us men, who can tell, really.
(Part of how we keep doing the telling?)

If only I smoked, then I'd have a reason
To breathe in this dirty air more often.
Up in that narrow tower, I turn away
From the obvious symbolism

Looking down when all the other exits
Are being repainted, but down here
I keep getting the feeling conversation

Could break out at any time. As soon as
I mention the physical world I notice
All these bodies breathing, moving along,
And what about sex, anyway. It's good,

Right? Yes I would give it many stars.
And -- once you start talking about it,
It takes its share of the taffy

Which is all of it. Oh heartbeat,
Beesting, freefall, codeword,

You are more gorgeous than an afternoon
On the interstate, more true
Than a building inspector, more attuned
To comparison's havoc than I am, by a mile.