Up from sea glass to meet its
Twin down from clouds, a white wire
Splits the world, cracking it,
Because fury mirrors fury.
The fist crushed your lines, tangled them
From Pantagruel, pasta, quinine, Valour
To snippets of spit, spat, nibe, um
Threads, truncated, snargled.
Her nerve is lovely, her audacity, and
How her sovereignty ends with everything orange,
Pinked, livid, aroused and drowsy;
A Turner where velocity spins up only memories.
One January night in front of the
Intercontinental in Paris, the battering rain,
The hammering rain on Rue de Castiglione,
Before golden glass, turned to snow.
Flowering snow in fountains of moth flight,
A moonless breath, like hearing forgiveness,
Making a multifarious, smoothing case for
Shrugging them off: grudges, politics, wrongs.
She wins. With her detailed back, her
Fall of hair, the clarity of her eye,
She will win. Gray eyed. The curl
Of her, its calm, its comprehensive cool