Process

Let him move toward
my listless, stumbling orbit.
I must push his sharpened footsteps
to the cushion of my heart.
He will not come in,
like a dog,
grown fat with praise.

I have told them where he lays his head to cry,
and so they will arrive, but on the count of tears.

Do not be fooled by word or bomb
or car wreck.
I have maimed you,
as my winter tends to do.
I will hang from whispered curtains in your room,
while you undress.
I steam to scald,
and not to rise from any rest.