Red Kite Regalia

and you talk like we hold the hill

and we
might, but it's no magic hill

still you just go on
burnishing sun

.

Recalling Lalibela
and ginger tea,

smarting the tongue in some plaza
caf?

you move the five fan blades in your hand.

Your
nails clack the conservatory table, like cupped dice,

ready for
the whir of the wrist,

the test of their
numbers

.

So I number the moles on your neck. And
some

may be spots of Indian summer hair dye

you missed
when you towelled your bare shoulders.

When you showered this
morning.

.

but you just go on burnishing
sun

the fan blades keep moving. I know

only the middle
blade is not a nine. I know

from the clack of your
nails.

Not a kick off the white, but hot chestnuts
splitting

.

and you talk like we hold the
hill

nothing will convince you otherwise.

The hoardes
of Guderians, the mob of Rommels,

the riot of Bismarcks, are
nothing to Lalibela,

to ginger tea, modern alchemy,
Venezuela,

brie, and the University
library

.

you just go on talking like we can hold them
off,

like your burnished sunlight does more

for the
blind-with-love

than the clack of you nails
and

.

behind the fan your small breasts

like
cupped dice

loaded, cupped dice

waiting snake eyes