Julianne Buchsbaum

Dear Introvert

in the recurrent blues of evening,
all the animals are around me.
The tenements across the river
are only lines carved in drypoint
with a stiletto quill. Their wax back-
ground will surely melt under this sky
banded with the colors of bottles
in barbershops, a sky untroubled by
spacecraft. If you were here, I could stop
wishing you were here. When I was ill,
pallid as broomrape in a clover field,
Lady X came to greet me in a wig,
and we spoke of luxation and accidents
under the tyranny of a pig iron moon,
the era of cigars and courtesans,
the bristling polyphony of Purcell.
As if we could speak a dialect of twins!
On Black Friday, glass facets mirrored
us endlessly where men ate pies
from automats. Distance effaces more
and more of your features. And though
the hours are crucibles I may not survive,
I remain
—your anti-bride.