Tangles

There were children ,in the wire, in the shadows
Struggling to free themselves - they sounded like birds
Their ragged bodies silhouetted on the sky, trembling like leaves

I saw her automobile parked on the street
Friday night, when Munch would paint the promenaders
In a leering white, and his Lovers would drain one

Another's blood through entanglements of hair
And Chagall would run his hand over the curves
Of the hips bumping when couples rubbed each other

While they walked down the Main street
And then at night they will fly off, groaning, shouting, sighing
Their grasping, groping bodies will grow temporary wings

During the rapture of Union. The ones who can speak
Exactly what their bodies are saying, are liberated.
Others merely grind up against one another, masturbate

Or sleep alone.

She is climbing into airy heights that are
Discernible through the autumnal shawl - a red/orange
She sits in the Theatre with her new man, her hair

Cascades over his hand, he holds her shoulder
Her breathing exhumes the tension of living with someone
Whose mind is uneasy, who is at the table with Death.

They have eaten well, they go home to rest in one another's arms
Pale limbs, like a den of pearl-snakes all entwined - relief
While the children, some of them, climb down off the wires

Men are caught in brambles, animals have found the Way through.

You 'll find me walking, alone, through shadows and pools of light
hands folded
In prayer that she screams his superiority

When he enters her tonight.

Somehow I can break this cable.