Like music the cellist hears
through the wood on her palm,
through the strings under
her fingers, through her
thighs. Like the draft funneled
under the blanket bridged
between quarrelling lovers.
Like two mirrors reflecting.
Like a wrong turn
on a one-way, late at night,
with headlights streaming toward you,
and no alley anywhere, and no
shoulder, and no sidewalk. Like
it or not, this is your music.
Let it in, the Trojan horse.
Cleave the metaphor.
Take liberties. Resent the
goose-stepping words
again and again but
do not stop. Rouge your
cheeks, but do not stop.
Rouge your eyelids,
collarbone, glasses and pen.
Rouge your books and cat.
Break into the butcher shop
late at night, after the
block dries, so you can
palm the wood and lick
the smooth circumference.