Poetry

As the scroll unrolls, scales
Ripple by the glass like fishes
Flashing gaseous tails,

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,
That wide wet kisser we
Smacked on to justify a pipe.

I am a field.
I am a blade of grass
Within the field.

“My mother lit me (father was her match)
And set me in a draught to catch my breath.

The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.
What king was it that built this highway?

How I hate you tonight!
I tick off
the bumps on your back,
your hangnails, the acid

I watch the point of the twirling stick
Where you are sleeping, where you will come again.

It’s a routine we’ve worked out
to pass the winter.
I saw myself in two, in three,
into a puzzle,

They are not
imaginary but
accessible only
intermittently.

It’s taken everything to bring them here: 
the peaches, grapes, oysters, the goblet of 
wine, the table & cloth.