Friday, October 5, 2012

Fool Disclosure

Like a cotton rib
         we hurt and spread
 lightly through the afternoon.

Near the whaled windows,
lunch happens.  The eye
is a dog's girdle

rising distilled.
There is a hand 
               to efface the eye

naked as rice

               in the cauldron 
               of mourning

and an oiled-boulder clear
           as a cut onion
smells and sits strung-

out the waterfall and
          beltway between our hearts.
I made a face

with no false flowers--
           the first expression I'd
never made to face--

for the store window
looks at me
like an invisible father

drinking the better concentrate
          of my former distribution of love

in a clear vowel
            of false teeth,
 like a cotton rib whaled
    in the world as it is

No comments:

Post a Comment