Andrea Brady

The thrill seeps out generally, slowly, peppering the soil
with shards of sprig-white to decorate the meaningless barge
that with rust has become ornamental among the other goods,
a vacancy for ferns.  It gives off the ooze of an unrepresented wish,
that in this nest where the push of rampant play
and experimental kindness circle their wettened pole
a ball of darkness has been brightened with the dross
of their bodies: the molting accelerated by heat, the hair
plucked from vagrant floating in raptured undescribed air.
From it, arise intention and painstaking attention, and where
this hand curled evaporating in the sleeper's lap it opens
the purse.  Bind her to your friends; enjoin her to select
from what's hanging still on the trestles, rejecting the gum-
swallowing flaws that would lace the trestles of the ribs
and work the correct.  From these tanks of plenty, beautified
stainless by disappointment or love's marked decline,
before the cunt's withering or your torpid blood,
find file and make ready: the mark of hope could be its ugliness,
the misapprehension of needful change before lines
of blood fall lowering us, drawing us by pumps
into shallower lanes and letting the cruise disappear.
From this wonder and maiden amity buckle 
them to us, or torpor in the common chance.  Pick this up; convey
our thanks.

Andrea Brady Index