It wasn't that late: cattle stampeding in the
water of the mirror, the lower half's reflection of sunset,

the moon a U magnet, trees sinking under the
swamp grasses, an audience of two, one large knuckle along the

ridge of the spine, the loosening of plates
and bolts and braces . . . The framed glass made

a sort of white noise as each steel piece
emerged from the mud—slender rods, shields with

rivets, whole bone replacements—while on the wide
bed hidden deep in one corner of the indoor river her nipples

floated pinkly on the dark absorbent water, the smell of
crushed lilies on her thighs. I like it when I have cuts

on both arms, like the sun sinking down into blood,
the hands together, the stinging all the way there, the heartbeat a window.