by Rodney Jones

    It has taken thirty-five years to be this confident

    of what happens between the noun and the verb.

    Eventually， love goes. The image. Then the thought.

    No？ Then you are still alive. Only a little. And then，

    I do not mean to depress you. Men have to hear before they see.

    Sacred vows. Dropped shirts.

    Women do not speak to men. They are overheard.

    Sadness mounts people. Around the burn-scar high on one thigh，

    the body of the beloved will vanish.

    And the come cries and salt hair-smells of lovemaking.

    Secret fiction， holy matrimony，

    longest short story the troth two lovers pledge to one another is none

    of the president‘s business， let him say what he wants.

    He is no good with words. Ask any true lesbian.

    He should take a poetry workshop with Adrienne Rich.

    He should try using the world less and words more