The Thinker from Issue 63/64
While public lovers enter each other’s glance
as if they are naked in their homes,
the man whose imagination is a fuse
guides his wife to a theater
where the ticket raker sleeps.
The lips of the wife are matches
complaining that his smile is tighter
than his teeth, asking if the fire he swallowed
from her lips, when they hugged
behind a dark window, stick in his throat.
He wears icy glasses. The moon,
she predicts, will burn the boulevard.