ABSTRACT
to T.W. Most men use their eyes like metronomes clicking off the beats of a woman's walk, how her hips press against the cloth, as figs just before they split their purple skins on the tree, measuring how much of her walk goes into bed at night, the jar of the sky being filled with the Milky Way glittering for every time she moves her lips but of course the secrets are not the obvious beats in the song that even a bad drummer can play hearing the speed of the motor —it too made up of beats— so fast, subtle, I suppose, they register as continuous sound or the heart which of course beats without any fan belt to keep it cool, 442it is a test, a rhythm, they could not see with those measuring eyes though perhaps there are some whose fingers and ears are so close to the motors with clean oil passing through their ears and draining properly into the brain pan, perhaps a few . . . who can tell what the secret bleeding of a woman is all about As a woman with oily stars sticking on all the tip points of my skin I could never trust a man who wasn't a mechanic, a man who uses his eyes, his hands, listens to the heart.
