Quantum of Solace

sounds like the name
of a bad book of poetry,
yet, no, no,
it's an Ian Fleming short story:
the title a highly contingent algebraic formula
hypothesized by the Governor of the Bahamas
which affixes
an exact integer
to a sum
determining how a couple
ceases to care for one another.
Outside my window,
the November nimbus clouds
are moving fast and low,
another book of poems
is growing sideways out of a preposition,
and your breasts,
I can't remember them,
sort of like how James Bond
wouldn't remember,
cutting his Aston Martin's wheel hard,
exerting the machine to slither o so limber—
but maybe,
in a line's last throes,
the memory I will replay before unconsciousness
involves sliding my hands
around your back,
which is a rhombus,
a conundrum of ease,
Whoa Yeah Baby
Dave Landsberger

Whoa Yeah Baby

Dave Landsberger

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