What we need are more gray-haired folk with gumption
who’ve got brains enough and wisdom
to know what works, who know
they’ve little time to leave their mark,

I saw a boy on the subway with green eyes from somewhere else,
with bones from another sea, with thoughts he wouldn’t take responsibility for.
I wondered his smell—the gritty smell of a person—

This crime is out of my control, the jury is speaking clearly now
Don’t let your guard down early; they’ll see your transparent exterior
Keeping quiet and careful, this calls for more deception
Your burlesque mask can hide you, but not the faux sensitivity
You had everyone fooled

What kind of clothes would they wear,
the little fishes of the lake?
Would they collect tiny pebbles in their pockets
or carry extra scales for when their own float off?

Florence is patted, dear-ed
strapped and aimless
she waits, part rigid spasm
part slumped moan, stale
as flaked sleep, sour

Women today are choking on
Their own self-loathing,
Bleeding out their pasts
Like their cells are ready
To jump off of bridges.

Is winter over already?
The ants seem to think so,
They’re busily arming
Themselves into ranks
Along the kitchen floor.

The thighs have it, all quivering and sweaty,
bubbling under fire like a planet about to be
violently born, but held back by skin
and bone and the bed beneath.

Late in June we went out
To gaze at the moon on the water.
I told the story of Li Po,
Who died, it’s supposed,
Leaning from his boat
Trying to embrace its silver glow.

Imagined us taking the midnight train, playing Russian parts, tasting of grain.
Through the winding mountains, under the winter looming,
I wanted to wear fox, with blue liner on my eyes, to stare at you dreaming.