She says nothing, and how.
The radio plays a dirge
for December. Then when walking
was going from verse to worse
in the hay of our years, she infiltrated
the moonlight in my beers. My toothpaste
wasted on her charcoal lips.
The things I could do were few
and the things I couldn’t fewer.
The drugged street lamps; the lost
rickshaws in their long slumber. Now
she extends herself like a theorem
to the trigonometry of our last strife.
The France in her head is long liberated.
How a yes can destroy your life.