PERTAINING TO NIGHT
Night is a wheelchair
and the wheel cock-eyed.
I feel strongly about fireflies
and am lining up the mayonnaise jars.
It goes like this,
night does, excuse to get somewhere
I love our children sleeping
in dens of sour breath
and the curtain red and slightly parting.
Baby, this. All of the shadows
are hands beckoning rain and rain again.
All of the tendrilled, mounting dark.
You weren’t anywhere I was planning to go.
The path from the porch to the car
for example, feeling my way along.
VOUCHSAFE; IT WILL BE BETTER YET
Friend, I will not tell you how you really look.
I will no longer tentatively poise my hand in midair--
I won’t say midair.
Unreasonable it happens, the dress is a lanky
notion of suffering, things that go on for too long--
let’s just call them beautiful.
And no more crying.
What really happened in the mirror. Where there is
reflection, you say create the incidence. So I do.
Here is a woman pinning the curtains, here is
a woman giving a blow job
every time you look up just know the fact of it.
The sky and lo, light filtering thru branches.
If you bend your head, the grass imparts
its timid reach; you can say Jesus if you want.
Whatever suits you.