11-24-06 2AM

this blood is stained blue bee hive pussy
don't cop a feel in the fog
a road to glass and bucker's lawn
a road to mary's wicker dawn
a found letter smeared in yellow
a copper year greased black and here we
are as ever as now
and still our sopping panties
and still our ears wait for another
tuskin stilt of lipid rise
i own this poultry crust
i own these fallic scultures in my room
in my curtained afternoons
when the thoughts go out for one slow second
i own this sucker of a scallion in my
body parts,
heaving with southern temperatures
in the novermber flickers of threat
to my compass flame.
stay
for maybe
for maybe another dream or breath and let's not think on
waking out of here.
my body is not what it was before.
it has grown green, as if it never had a frost.as if
all those brittle postures melted into roots
each lick another depth to soil. oh vision
keep rolling out of focus
until i sleep for more to come.