January: Year-day 12

                                         
                                          
January: Year-day 12
                                                      
"Most men lead lives of quiet desparation",
dictating to their secretaries, bending
over their unborn children, skipping stations
on an evening express, earning, spending,
male, female--I and you pitched among them
as if we were horseshoes still in the air,
the changing air, arcing toward a steel stem,
hoping our pitchers' powers more than fair.
                                                       
For days moaned whistles have rushed from the spaces
between the windows in our livingroom's
west wall.  For years we/ have lived with each other,
thinly/ hiding faces/ behind our faces,
unable to halt the gathering tombs
that barely let us be sisters, brothers.
                                                       
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