I push my nose to your hand like a bud
believing you are a caper, rock star, 
that you have circular glasses 
like Freud 		Derrida “dies” says the onion

that you teethe on my jaw, that back 
in the room there flexes

this dark under a dress



we slap the cow with the back of a shoe, sleep 
on top of a golf cart

to recite Chaucer 
in the dark in the dirt and know—



what we are doing having children, pitiless
children	 their forms lighting me
like flowers on our sabbatical

dead bees on my desk
wet spots on the newspapers: 
little stems, petals		where you wipe 
your hands there are forms	a bug
turns into a scab on my cheek



that asking, pinching your dreams like fish, fragrance-driven, 
biting violets, chrysanthemums,
rhododendrons in quick bright bursts

in the drawer beside our bed		spitting 
in the little mouth 
a prayer? 



I turtle to the kitchen for tea	 wait
sleep in my trousers		lie there
like a discrete thing	yoke you, lift off fully grown

you dream crocodiles	
you go down to death in there		

I read Thel  and you go down		the train comes	
the doors go down, the box  of meat drops 
on the snow 	



the moment I look tinctured 
like children, flush with pulp, how that woman
ate a pear on the bus

I cut the face from Chekhov
and pin it to my stern		 it is red,
it is just like you



whether the wire is still in me, if I am Mick
when you stand there
twisting yourself into birds

I eat clean a pomegranate socket,
you soon will be done too

whiffing what Brando caught by the tail 
it is our bed 	a rat is dead 
to take pictures of the tiny face 
and hands	  think a little, click our tongues