The moon wishes in my ear
then the astral shearing

along the body's guy-wires.
I lumber though the day's

dregs accruing in the pelvic
pit. I want to drown

in bed, birth the damn cabbages
with their hot breath. I want to haul

muscle off bone like taffy. Peacocks
strut in the gut. Journey,

be done with me. Can't you pass
without dragging your spurs

through the scenery? Awe
grows by the river, but it's a

bitter flower. Such heavy
machinery for a mere nit,

a pinpoint of gel spit from
this month's anemone.

Two weeks later: an opera.
Love's sad fortune drains

down my legs, staining
the white tile in wild roses.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 188, no. 2, May 2006. Used with permission.