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The man who told me about war
said, it's the only thing
that keeps us busy.
I thought of your fingers
on my back
counting the vertebrae
one by one.

The only thing?

The perfect satisfaction
of wine, cigarettes, the sun
at an afternoon angle
passes through flesh
as if flesh were a sieve
to the direct point
the soul of matter.

Things fix time
although the sun moves
lazily, creating an image
that seems like motive
the wine transmutes
and becomes blood
cigarettes dissolve
to blue threads and ash
but the sun continues
in constant repetition
of its slow and rather boring dance.

She sat on his lap for hours
pressed his face to her
large pink breasts her hands
moved through his hair
like fond snakes

she gave him curls, cleft
hooves beneath the flesh
marvellous flesh, and smooth shoulders

she taught him
how to use his tongue
to shape a heart
from a piece of ice.

From this height
the sunset spans the whole world
before me: houses and trees are shadows
neon flares between them like sudden fire
the freeways run, always
strangely vacant with riderless cars
empty air

the windows up here
refract the blue slate and rose light
making the hills on the horizon collide
with ideas of Sussex, piedmont
or the cold clear wind of the Abruzzi
but that is never what is out there.

Because I must walk
through the eye-shaped
shadows cast by these
curved gold leaves thick
atop each constructed
palm tree, past displays
of silk scarves, lit
silhouettes of blue-bottled
perfume — because
I grip, as though for the first
time, a paper bag
of french fries from McDonald's,
and lick, from each fingertip,

i.

In a courtyard, in these stacks of chairs
before the empty stage — near are
we Lord, near and graspable. Lord,
accept these humble offerings:

stacks of biscuits wrapped in cellophane,
stacks of bone in glass: thighbone,
spine. Stacks of white saucers, porcelain
circles into which stacks of lip-worn

I don’ t have any sentiments
would somebodything thirst my quench
how about
about my mediocrity of character? I dance
with the dead divinely
in my dreams
I’ m stricken deaf when I mention it my babies
cry they want everything quick! here. un-
mentioned
as character should be
like the purpurine it needs must be carved in,

All things belie me, I think, but I
look at them though. Well boys, at
least you’ re not dead, right? What’ s
the date today? Until something. What?
Of the lady of the whitening blow.
I’ m ashamed to keep on babbling
as if I’ ve always been oneself,
diamond flow through. Humble
flannel skeleton. Grin, laugh unbecoming
Living at the bottom of the water may
have been obvious all the time. But
I forget. What’ s my plot? Hand
of a child, paw of an animal. Paint
it red & make a pawprint in the psalter.

It was a poem
men took because it said ovary

didn’ t take my
political poems
they took the one that said ovary

Are you sure it was because it
said ovary?

Yes, for them that’ s logical.

---------------------------

Destroy another
city
What
else
is war for? So

you’ ll go down
each of you does. dies in
whirlwind

Purportedly a chain of civilians, soldiers, voices
lice they were called. It is sometimes sufficient to beg
Lice creeping over one, kill them with a chemical;
then there are lice-ghosts everywhere. Glints of pearly
nails. The light of my beloved will keep me from noticing.
Trailer to keep her in; he asked me if I knew her ‘auction name.’
Walked over the scorch; what are values when there’ s nothing here?
The wing of a dead soul grows into all the lace you see through,
foreigner, lice-ridden article of divestment. Splendid vices