verbatim. He fills my zen
with the mercy waiting.
I turn the embers
and refracture shelves of time,
feel the earth becoming my goddess,
filling my orbs with soil.
I turn green tea red
in rain revealed by sunlight.
Diego Rivera eats a dark watermelon
on my doorstep, wedge by wedge,
grins at my plans for revolution.
"I am", he says, "something
of an anarchist."
We talk about women.
Their fits, their delights,
their smells, the ways
of all their passages.
Their primacy, their power.
Our lives always linked
with their shadows,
our virtue spoiled by hunger
but the beauty of our greed,
and how they loved it
when it was theirs alone.
"We couldn't be kept. Street dogs,
not house dogs. Let's go and visit
my friend Mike Tyson."
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