Curses in the night at the objets de famile:
the potted violets root-bound children,
penned rabbits, all petty/pretty in their variety;
the unrepairable Edwardian piano
can't dry the pillow case
the damp straw.
Nor will the grand gestures and coveted insights of cognac
appease the orange beside the paring knife
as anxious as a stream of dawn light piercing the makeshift curtain
to glean the paired buttocks frozen in sleep
of any destruction or terror flung to our lover's hearts
by pink sight from emptied bottles
or hollow psychologies learned from a lesser world.
There are no schedules
as there are no milestones in terminal love
except tears and bruises brought on by the discovered absorption
and the admittance of alternate horizons.
Where the straw remains
caught between heroes and beggars
swathed in Izod and boots
swarmed by a lack of identity
and sworn to reject Africa
until another summer wind evaporates the rodent blood
and broken night in orange/apprehension.