|
Aristoria
The long
spatters of her,
years
across the luncheon,
the gravy
speech,
other
streaks of paint,
just
imagine,
a margin of
handsome
shade was
feet away,
melodies of
unpestered,
accidental
anarchy,
chalk-etched pow!,
in place of
striking hub-kept
approval,
her body
unfastened,
incidental, yet
her body
crescents
against the
first wheel;
new works
electrify
the
reference.
Preening
the scab with
a pretty
comb,
just
imagine,
spatter,
purpose, and streak.
Amphisbaena
Let looking
back describe my thought
when the
world before me looks on.
With
pennies in hand to prosper the ghost-keep,
some mortis
to affix my place among them,
may I later
witness my children approach
with
quarters each.
Hand in
hand, so having felt
where all
the passage starts,
I bid my
sweet wife no horrid renewal,
and spring
against her palm an account
larger than
my own.
When the
boatman is sufficed his clinks,
we will
pass, leaked into the down hereafter,
expiring as
piss and applause.
We will
aggravate our punishments in an ugly,
loving
vale, and for our grand or sinister deeds,
whatever is
recorded, become the snake, itself,
a head at
each end.
Rich Preserves
To what
privacies, the unmade glass bed,
in like
love ruddy accosted, pin-up and pump-scratching,
they doze
me out as bead-sweat from damp, deaf jam
in rounded
Summer heat through the jar.
I sweat
through the glass itself, to the air,
cumulating,
erecting, shark-circling the gestures
of
wood-housed, dusty screws.
Fingers
dipped into jam, fingers to tongue,
raspberry a
rocky suspension of stains,
caster
sugar, wax and moist sud;
Fumbling
puckering sucking gnarled slits in a wild hand.
Kissing Margaret Atwood
Eels,
redworms, and Margaret
are the
same.
Their
shadows cast mute and wriggling,
and so they
live in alcoves, silt, and sod.
They get
rid of the air to vocalize worry,
gasps of a
sort,
and then
they shudder and twist at the lights
as if these
were their hearts all along.
When in
lust, they expand like baguette
in a bath;
when they wake, it is slow
as melting
frost.
They all
eat bits, they all dream of things
that hide,
and the very notion of time
leaves them
be, until.
|
