he combed the distraction out of me

she unites the two coils of her
black hair
in a knot of leather,

receives the bullet without waver,
makes a recital of it

now this sort of corpse
would try to climb out of its own coffin

what an Orang-outang is love

and she thought about him
for a long time:

her thrilling hung like lights,
her lust
raising its tail

he moved
her heart from left
to right

having lived now a weapon on her all her life—
she is more essentially
herself with her trouble opened