ASSEMBLY

in the deadpeal,
in the convent yard, saint
someone allot a fraction
of his dinner benediction.
for me, he laid the
pants out in the sphagnum,
to think of in my deprivation.

i held my breath, for years,
beneath the umber patina
of the pool. my volute hair,
a water-torch training
for what never, what maybe.

for you, plaster of paris
to be crazed, that previously
let you move, just enough.
you waded to the waist
and gave me a lift in your car;
as i drained ribbons of blue,
you helped me with the fly.