By William Benton

The watch is slipped off

with unceremonious candor.


This is going to get in the way.

What kind of wine is there?


The tearing and burrowing.

Flame-pointed stars circle


in opposite directions. Time

for the wallpaper report: roses,


yellow on blue, sir. I lean

against the brink of myself.


You breathe it in her hair.

You say it once too often.


William Benton received his early training in music, and worked as a jazz musician before becoming a writer.  He is the author of several books of poetry, including Marmalade, Normal Meanings, Eye La View, Birds, and The Bell Poems.  His poetry has been published in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Open City, and other magazines.  He is also the author of Exchanging Hats, a book on the paintings of Elizabeth Bishop, and a novel, Madly.  He lives in New York City.

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