Complaint

// Mary Birnbaum

The sunlight loaded    with devil
                    crowds the eye,
the ear   jostled by the quarrels     of city music,
    worries across the shoulders,
                                                skin unsatisfied.   

                      Stop. 
Slowly   as if sneaking it in,
                                                pull into lungs
what we think is heaven.    Then let it     go. 
     All this red      throbbing     in the palisade,
our crutch and fortress,
                                                wrapped in a dirty skin. 

                      We’re
determined to own it.  To give it away    to pleasure.
                      Souls cranked up                               
                                                          on high heels   hips    uneven
                                                     make waves in the pool of buttocks.

                      Stop.
Beauty can only be   held    
          by empty hands.