Muddled end. Improv Tiara, Mark Doty:
Gnarled veins work through hands that wrap
the handle, fat, like bloated worms or
babies diapered in blue-striped cloth.
An unexpected tenderness, he pushes her chair
with grace not found in his finger's warp,
and each wheel glides like autumn wind.
She sits, erect, the full-bloom of blue
eyes seizing everything. He takes
a corner and she emerges, stiff and wild
though silent, her mouth recumbent
to her head's upended blondeness,
parallel to her red suede shoulders.
We're almost done, he tells her
and her head tilts to meet his words,
slow, like the drain of green from leaves
and he smiles, and she smiles too,
a slow grin that seems to stretch
her face like years, her blue to streaks--
a false speed. The only blur
to flare in her gradient unfurl, watered
by every minute between them.
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