Love

you gave me a white rose
put the lamp on the stove
it caught fire
the I Ching said
thunder above the lake
lightning in Baker Street

switched on the cooker
and blew a fuse
blue flash
you see
the whole experience
is electric

In my heart the old love
Struggled with the new,
It was ghostly waking
All night through.

Dear things, kind things
That my old love said,
Ranged themselves reproachfully
Round my bed.

Up late watching slug porn, you confess
you had a boyfriend who could spin you

like that, slug grace and slug ballet — we don’ t
touch the topic of slime — and those eyes

dangling from tentacle tips must be a
kind of love or lust, sighting farther and

nearer all at once. (But are those eyes?)
Slug sublimity suggests love’ s a drag,

touch that lingers and leaves a wet trail of
memory and... What did we do before

YouTube? Boob tube. Boobs we have none; slugs,
of course, don’ t care, can’ t tell girl from boy,

Purveyor of  rot and whatnot,
entrepreneur of  I forgot,
with wrists hard as hammers —
that birthmark a slot —

grip it, strip it, flip it hard —
ramp my shard.
If  fear be sexy, a synch
& a match —

Gone the way of  wax & worms —
gone like November 2011 —
sweet by nature, mean by culture —

“Goodbye, luck, you idiot,”
said the Fox to the Grapes.
“I love you,” replied the Grapes.

scent of myrrh on the handles
when oil is in the lock
silken is his mouth
when he is hard upon me

young heart, green bed,
his fingers are in the stream
he eats of the bitter honey
the sweetness of cherry

sacrament of the blood
and of its winding
sacrament of arrival
and of its binding

Chewing slowly,
Only after I’ d eaten
My grandmother,
Mother,
Son-in-law,
Two brothers-in-law,
And father-in-law
(His big family included)
In that order,
And had for dessert
The town’ s inhabitants,

Did I find, says Kabir,
The beloved that I’ ve become
One with.

The belt kicks on with a whir & the whir
licks the end grain of the offcut with a hint

of  hesitation. A small wind of ochre dust
sweeps off the belt before the belt comes back

to where it was. The whole room swells
with the scent of cinnamon & desire.

How imprecise the smell of desire.

The wood takes on a sheen, a gloss
the grain can live behind without worry

of  being forgotten. A single knot blinks
out of the small block and becomes

In the road, a dog. Days dead,
that dog. Liliana was walking beside me awhile
(I am sure) and I was almost not crying but then found

what I was looking for.
She heaved it for me — all of it, the stench, the weight —
in her thin arms until it was too much.

Tired, she dragged the thing by its wasted paws
all the way home. Her dress was stained. This is how

I learned about love. She did not mind at all
the silent, steady distance I placed between us.

Off rows of windshields
in the Amtrak lot
rain in sudden
clumps like jacks. Parked cars
with people in them
awaiting people they imagine
hurtling through suburbs
of silver woods
awaiting them. True
love needs interference,
a certain blizzard distance,
for the words to worm through.
Remember Iowa?
August storms that would self-spark
as if our fights could trip
the finest wire beneath the sidewalk.
And the sunlight, harder after.

If by truth you mean hand then yes
I hold to be self-evident and hold you in the highest —
ko to my ot and bait to my switch, I crown
you one-trick pony to my one-horse town,
dub you my one-stop shopping, my space heater,
juke joint, tourist trap, my peep show, my meter reader,
you best batteries-not-included baring all or
nothing. Let me begin by saying if he hollers,
end with goes the weasel. In between,
cream filling. Get over it, meaning, the moon.
Tell me you’ ll dismember this night forever,