
APOLOGY FOR NEW WIVES
The hoax of relic bones
and the goddess of hinges
stay buried in the still
frozen ground. A scheme
luminous as a pearl.
Hidden: flimsy telegrams
and torn-envelope letters,
clear-eyed jewels; all of it
bundled, pushed deep
into a hole in the wall,
nestled among sparrows.
This is a hard fact:
appetites make bad wives.
Cigarette smoke swirls white,
rooms forget dimensions.
The birds begin to escape.
They leave almost no trace
in the electric morning;
they shine like silver keys.
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