Five thousand years of history bent,
the word writ—to keep her spent
and ragged—toothless in metaphor,
if you want the truth of it.
A pin prick or pen—
ink smeared on her cheek,
the spin of gold, the name withheld, untold—
We will crush the earth,
if we must.
She fusses with her hair—deliberately
causing the train to be late.
He waits at the station with a letter
in his coat pocket—folded and unfolded
a dozen times. There is no God,
she tells him, only the hope
of sex during the game.
Brady
From an Upstairs Window