The Question of Duets

(a new show germinates)

The question of duets today occurs to me

less cursorily than it has before – now that

I’ve scavenged such a lot of creatures from

their chests of drawers to press them into couples

on my floor – to see who softens just enough

to adumbrate some willingness to enter a relation,

to seem at least to want to brush another fate with

theirs. No compunction to find mates: just the hope

that they can bear the likelihood of being seen

by others as blind dates. They won’t, I know,

forgo a show of great dismay if I subject them

to the barest sentimental whiff, or wish that they

convey affectionate regard in any way: they’re

a caustically resistant bunch, by dint of their

insistent unassailable autonomy: one therefore

guardedly proceeds on hint and hunch to dare

to pair them into duos. The tenor of our tacitly

agreed-to pacts far from unnaturally breeds

a range of sadomasochistic pleasures (among

which bleeds excruciating désespoir, as, du matin

au soir, they mutter to me en français) –

but I’m the despot, you conniving sneaky lot!

I shoot the final shot. And all of it, of course,

as surely is foregone, is play. Wouldn’t you say?

So here are they, dueting. The not-so-secret

secret is they crave the promise of exposure

this display prophetically suggests, indeed one day

(they pray) materially will beget. Gazing into

middle distances, as is their fashion – performing

thoughtfulness with sensitive dispassion, not

regretting being showcased in a sort of wedding,

this at least is clear: no one here is fretting.