Lyn Lifshin		WHEN I READ HIS LOVE POEM: OH YES   In these pale yellow rooms, gold light settling on a rose in a glass bowl. When I think of how you called my body cougar slim, tawny, the dark gold of my thighs, I feel your skin on the ochre rug I sent you a clip of as if it was my hair		ON A DAY MACHINES KEEP BREAKING I need a good room to just listen, a flat still as where a woman sits on the edge of a bed in a Hopper painting. It’s as if I am that woman, displaced, as unsure how she got there as how racing pigeons straying off course ended up in South Africa