The color of your heart startswith a freight train and runs intoslow candles smoking lightfrom years before channeledthrough your irisabove the wooden table,inside British village windows,devouring meon our padded leather bench.I am whole again.Your beats go invincible whenthe barkeep does his secret soft shoeto some soft ditty beside us.I don’t mind the missing violin;I am sweetly imbibing a foreignfortitude: nothing terriblewill happen this hour or the previous.After we passed the smokebetween our shoulder blades,I cracked my glass in the door so youwould see for me. Wholesomely,how can one carry a lifereserved, monogamous,alert only to trade regulations,an approaching end,and museums called homes?We will trade signatures one day,and I will bestial your name.My little finger lies between ushiding a crack, and I cannotfathom its meaning a selfwho moves the broom orplucks this guitar fear.Without telling, I have triedto say the long tall grasswe will crush with wetin a spidery midnight.Until then, we hold whatorphan hands first gather:fresh tracks, a way to the crowd,faces to wrap arms aroundand a hand on the etherthrough every brain’s throatthat, in prayer, swallows us now.____Amy King Amy King's most recent books are Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox) and, forthcoming, I Want to Make You Safe (Litmus Press). She edits the Poetics List (SUNY-Buffalo/University of Pennsylvania), moderates the Women’s Poetry Listserv (WOMPO), and teaches English and Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College. King also co-curates the Brooklyn-based reading series, The Stain of Poetry. For more information, please visit http://amyking.org.

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