chevre de la solitude

“I buried my heart beneath your walls
the only place I ever felt at home.”
crossing the street, admiring the
elegant laundress�"letter in her hands
never dirt beneath her nails, but gravel in
her mouth, constantly chewing
grinding down to a fine art the
paste to make the bricks that walk
andtrip while she bleaches socks and hand-
kerchiefs sheets shirts skirts sweaters slacks�"
favored fetters
her husband left his job in Paris to become
a goat cheese farmer in Nepal, spending days
that hang on the horizon from clothespins
swinging

he wipes the drip from his mouth to
his sleeve (milk mustache transference)
reminded of the soft skin of the laundress
raises his hand to his head, shooting a winking projection
on the wall of him. and her.  applying his goat-milk lotion
feeling her underneath his hands strong sinews formed
from the soapy cast-off of clean cloth

the projector dies, just like the dial tone
after phone conversations
that curl
send for you soons
down the
cord