It is important to stay dangerous, 
and preferably transparent, like that 
broken tumbler writhing at fingers 
in the soapy water, 
like that cough of wind 
which shears jets into the ground. 
This is why when we smile 
we threaten to bite, show incisors 
if not intent, and why we say I love you. 

The man speeding from a cannon 
imagines two trajectories: 
one a graceful arc to the net, 
the other directly to the face 
of a woman in the crowd, her eyes widening 
in fascination and horror 
as his body hurtles toward hers. 
Perhaps she will move. 
Perhaps they will kiss and die. 
Perhaps each has the same velocity. 

Let us watch television. Let us 
dip our glove in poison, no, 
in mercury, as in Cocteau's Orphée, 
so it will disappear and not rustle 
the surface, but only displace the depths. 
Let us imagine our hands invisible 
and able to cause tears, 
waiting for movie music to crescendo, 
a scream, the lurker, strange camera angle. 

Here, hold my hand. Have I told you lately 
that you are like cholesterol, my heart is so full 
of you it threatens to choke and stop? 
Little death, big death. 
This is why we must stay together.