The Etiquette of Romance

I. 
There's always hope 
that the bird will fly again. 
I see a winged shadow rising 
sideways up the wall. 

II. 
The final date 
is a large hard-bound volume. 
If you come to me in the evening 
I will collaborate with you 
on a macro-character description. 
Walls intact 
we subdue the gelatinous 
substances to a sequential form of behold -- 
dissect--amaze-- 
--No conclusion is possible. 

III. 
(Oh fiery bearded goddess pressed 
on the western sky, uphold some continuity--) 
I suffer discomfort prior to drying. 

IV. 
The dissecting tools consist of 
a finely beaded glass needle, 
and a glass microscope slide. 
It could take days to recover 

consolation. The absence 
of a discernible 
confrontation line 
throws our distinguishing features 
on the granular movie surface. 

The large characters formerly used in moral identification 
have been greatly reduced in significance. 

V. 
I open my mouth and anything falls out. 
Mad paper dolls, scissors, gleaming teeth 
saved in a glass jar, a clot 
of blood. Things shift out of focus. 
Is this fever? 

Little holes in my skin where the tools 
have entered. A scar at the bottom of your face. 

VI. 
Forms are required by social convention 
rules fulfill decorum. 

I elongate the subject, re-arrange the ribs 
and shape, to make the argument seem conical. 

From inside the vortex I point 
but your shadow escapes 
over the outside wall. 

Gulls hang on the sky. 
Sixty-five percent chance of rain. 

VII. 
Down the stairs at high noon 
soft soles on pavement 
rip open the day. 

"I will go now and buy wine to make me feel good. 
Then I will sit on the lawn and write 
my poison essay," 

It begins: "Crossing a bridge in the dark. . ."