All SaturdayI beamed For the happiness In my breast HappinessLike a dagger The sheath that wasMy chest Happiness so at homeIt became me Ripped ragged as if readyTo rend Bursting and flaringWith radiance A smile beyond lipsWithout end
Within ten miles,The thirst-crazed grassRoiled with hoppers,Which ricochetedAgainst my glossy tracks.Those trainers — black —Adhered to lines,Packed dirt on leathered flats.The sun was lecherousAnd high:Scouring bogs,Souring marshes,Polishing salt to pinprick spackle.O, the tortured snows of August.O, the madness of my march.
Toeing rusted tins, I know.Draining slow sirens, I know.Counting carrion crows, I know.I know. I know. There is treasure where I go. Green woodpeckers, last month.This month, foxes testing paws. Oblivious, they didn’t noticeUntil my hand closed.
Like a vaulter crying for the mat.Recursively yawning on screens,Caught in the broadcast thatThose same surfaces were showing. Drill, drill, drill. Buffers, sand, sack. All that Footage of athletes curling,Belly-to-butt-tuck rolling.Live-streamed: no winding back.We tend towards collapse. Hit the buffers.Hit the sand.Hit the sack.
im tired of fighting vampiresthey put bitemarks on my heartnd i sleep with one eye openbut cant get my dreams to start it sucks staring at shadowswolves lurk nd lunge at metheir fur clogs up the chambersof my lungs like a disease zombies i flinch and flee fromi outpace them they pursueso many goddamn problemsbut …
The pile goes down;A bristling caterpillar;A hostile cocoon;A wooden wall of bric-a-brac: Fence panels and trees that fellLike bodies — wracked by storms, Cut by teeth, stacked by folk, My band, my people. Touching scars, our gloves became sopsFor sap and the memory of blossom…Swings… cooking apples… birds…Seasons of migration… All fuel for fire. I …
Where do I situate myselfIn this shining tableau of loveThat has Psyche sighting Eros,Her bedfellow?In that hinge of wing, the fleeing alulaFlinching from oil, Scouring specks that leaptFrom a lantern with a yawning well. What more may fall? Who may tell? I wonderIf the other half is yours. The revealing light. The stripping bare. The …
There’ll come a yearwhen I do not seeants up on the mortar,or leaves gracing the trees.Not ripples. Not sprays of water. Goggles get torn off,leaving greasy smearsof folk, suspendedin wheezing chemical baths(my eyes). I’ll sit pool-side. Let old sun bake my back.As bricks give up their heat,I’ll give up mine(and other fine insect pleasures). And …
A ticking watchAt 20 feet. A bead of perfumeIn a honeymoon suite. An insect wing,Against your cheek. A candle,One town over.
Canary Wharf persuades youPeople can get busy in all directions,But the woman cramming bagels,Wedging salt beef between gherkins,She points directly – right through.
