In Piles

Juggling passwords between our mouths,
I connect to the men of American cities.

By runes, confession, dramatics,
I make them cry for a fruit
Whose name has been forgotten.

If they picture me in a puddle or in a wedding dress,
They become obsessed with snowfall.

One tabulates the words the other does not know,
Records his disappointments in spots
Along the thigh, velveteen.

Where is desire? In desire,
In leaves swept below a cassock.

We set our eyes on each other and our minds
On something else, make impossible shapes
In piles of fabric.

Do not ask me to repeat myself. Little matters
In this invention. Yours, mine, the one that shatters.