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Poem	A precise woman with a short haircut brings order to my thoughts and my dresser drawers, moves feelings around like furniture into a new arrangement. A woman whose body is cinched at the waist and firmly divided into upper and lower, with weather-forecast eyes of shatterproof glass. Even her cries of passion follow a certain order, one after the other: tame dove, then wild dove, then peacock, wounded peacock, peacock, peacock, the wild dove, tame dove, dove dove thrush, thrush, thrush. A precise woman: on the bedroom carpet her shoes always point away from the bed. (My own shoes point toward it.)
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