Private eros love song, 1974
by Wei Liu

Charcoal on paper, oil on pitched canvas
as water rises over a tide wall.
Our bodies already immigrants
huddling below sea level. Otherwise autumn—
pollen orbiting a streetlight, gathering secretly
in hubcaps. Today is another vital circle
tragically spiraling into valleys, riverbeds,
books. The question of beauty as you
empty the bedpan, kiss me quickly,
leave through the windowsill. You see,
I dream of you often—
A shelf of cinderblocks, two tires stacked
to be separated. And off-screen, a body
blanketed, reflected by the mirror
partially obscured. Posted;
love letters, photographs.