the sun sneaks into my dim room early
things are quiet, the quiet is quiet
it waits so long before it goes down
then slowly, like a lover sinking
tuning the old radio, whose patina
guarantees its place, in this quiet cottage
the lake so still
soon perhaps a moon on the water,
idiotically beautiful the way tableaux line up
the radio not finding the channels so good,
it won't behave,
my hand a poor slave to the taste in the throat
women bring
a day of such hours
could make a difference in my habit
of getting close, the silky boney frictions
the calendar's mute distance,
a disturbance of bands,
so many romances, their so many hands