Thursday, December 11, 2014


Life on the wing of a vast sadness
she keeps pricking herself and will not stop
and her problem rests perfectly
on the foundation of our world
where I wait at the bottom in a bed
built on fallen rafters and newspaper
toothbrushing my little death in a pail
tucking in my meat browser
and she comes in a shawl of mexico burnt orange
wrapping her english grammar around the top of my spine
she inhabits with a gun the ring of flowers
she inhabits the excited reality of snakes foils and whales
reviving my bent skeleton with licensed nipples
turning my head to the dictionary of frankness
filing my paperwork in the vault-speak of human flesh
cooling an ember with two mouths
closed to the dawning

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