The Beautiful Day
the simplest pleasure is getting high
in the afternoon with 2 fertile women:
i take the peacock feathers (they have eyes
in them) & pass them along the small
of H's back. she says, o, i can't even feel
them. they seem to float.
the shadows in the room have such a weight.
they seem to float / a weight down the lids.
my weight of emotion rises slyly against L's thigh
as a thin wave of shadows breaks over us.
(the sound, from the roof, of Thursday
turning over)
just how thick is love & what
does it weigh? less than a feather?
& does it have eyes?
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