n o s u c h p o e m
T H O M A S D E V A N E Y
for John Coletti
John, hug "like a quilt truck."
On the roof "Cooing a page
in the twilight."
Quilts, quilts, quilts: how can I
describe their single-stitch tred?
I know if you knew, you'd take us--
I know that. As you do, and do.
You don't say, "You don't say."
Nor I don't want to live like a story.
A translucent brown lanoline floor-dust
is there for you to see, sweep,
blow away, note-by-slow dusty note.
No bull, yes; "someone stole."
JC enters the ring: it's war, it's peace--
Leo T. to a T.
Ted and Ted G. are in the corner,
your cut men.
Curly hair Coletti, measured eyes, measured
lips--the measure of a moan
"Sewn inside your ear" to keep.
The conceit of this and all conceits.
All the silent bruises I have ever loved,
the "emotional surface" scratched and gone too.
Wrapped in blankets, no one asking if it's a flood.