Jeff Crouch

a picture of repair

beyond the cabinets of the museum
my wife is a box on a train belonging
to the Chinese circus

mop bucket or broom
the panic sets in, the Terror returns
and I try to close the door

in this place where she used to work—
in the janitor’s room, the sink glistens in wash water gone stagnant
outside, the tour guide speaks of his children

folded open, a picture in Time of a Russian morgue
where the bodies rest naked
three deep, five high against cold tile

my wife smiles, holds her flowers
one picture on the wall over
my body is a word, has its own stink

whose music reminds me of that organ
made flesh; indeed, my sense in that room awaits
its own darkness, the perfume of lips

I look in the drawer for a pencil
to stencil the word PEMOHT in reverse
on the street facing window