--- 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.