You ignore repetitions
and squeeze into a backbend . . . departures
circling in a rattletrap
as if and only if the unloved
forgotten . . . momentarily . . .
will surge into forgiveness . . .
How may times will the times beckon
intimating disposable
without really thinking it through . . .
The probabilities at the table
in the windowless room
plastered with Vermeers . . .
Choose small in big
and with that the elements of chance . . .
Of course, you may lust . . . out of desperation . . .
watching sculls turn the stake
in an oil by Eakins . . . and you are there
on Sunday evenings at seven always . . .
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| Wanda Choate |