Sara on Sunday
"Love does not closer to truth,"
She tells me, as she notes her
Guillotine is dull.
Bed smells like bread in aftersnow.
Don't climb steps to see ceiling words:
Figurantes, frisson, venelle, himitsu.
Call, no response. Reciprocation
Like saw. Turn on tape; test water.
Tu es si bourgeois.
Baby Jesu makes bread
Weeping palms. His ears bleed gold.
His eyes shine rubyred.
Present evanesces and absconds.
After years' tender terror,
I must alight,
Part curtains of hair, say hello
Heaths on barge as enter pavilion.
You don't fold it, it doesn't come true.
Ragged wrawl pierces air.
"Hurry up, sweetie; hurry up."
We wend way back through patchy floes.
The mother of mother of mother of mother—
I had thought you God but
You send in marketing analysis,
Buy Costco convenience ring,
Eat crickets for breakfast.
Your keys rattle like thunder.
You lead orchestrated flesh into
Prismatic fire, teach me alephbet,
Shake your ashtray in ashcans,
Enumerate to me facts of life:
"L'avocat mange avocat. Messer von
Nasser schneidet Wasser."
When we awake, we interpret
Other's dreams. In wetness whereof,
Caution; crossing ahead.
I overhear word that goes to waste.
I overhear word that goes to waste
Without saying, "Gorly, gorly, hellalajuh!"
Spangled with rain, nipple slips its
Cloisonné box. It must be able to
Smell death. It must be able to see
Nothing definite any longer.
When it snows, I shovel snows.
When it rains, I shovel rains.
I ask again, "What remains?"
Saint Francis of A Sissy brings me
Nestled epistles. Apollo becomes frog.
I am weller than before. I consider
Trees, birds, silhouettes. I am one-man
Deportment of defence. At night, I poesise.
Then walk to mailbox in flagrante,
(I won't be back before water boils),
Return, strip masque from face,
Give it pandiculative rest,
Loosen time belt, note flourish
On quail's crown, don't hesitate
To say name (in vain they wait).
It is now done. I forget the space
Between atom and earth,
How effortlessly you turned,
And instead watch my love
Rest quietly at my feet.