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--- 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.

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