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