What’s needed now is bodies—
when the cold wind blows,
mind is all unpicketed
and skint. But bodies,
sleek and sly with holes
(though Casanova
grew besotted with a lady’s face)
mouth calypso bright
as hibiscus flowers of Trinidad.
War too requires its bodies,
grisly pileups of bones
and trinkets of the lost,
bespattered flesh
filleted by thieves.
Rain that slants down
glum and plumbed to dark,
seed us lithe new bodies,
something rich and strange.