The doctor takes an x-ray
of a balloon,
finds bone tumors.
Illness permeates the party.
I dance in a bird cage.
The door is open,
but I can’t get out.
Depictions of parrots on the wall,
the sordid light on repeat.
Masses of bodies,
shivering to a twisted music.
I give my teeth to a nun.
Salvation waits in the curvature
of this cornerless room.
My breathing wet,
I wring out my words.
Lost,
broken,
Brave,
malfeasance,
mirror.
In my golden cage I know nothing,
dream of silver silence.
Day divided into meters.
The world is darkened,
So my life is a thing of life.
I work as a wife.
The dry river enmeshes with my daughter’s birth day.
My body goes to sleep,
my mind enters,
deep integration.
Sinking cloud
hovering over the mudslide.
See my plastic body
construct bridges.
Look through my chest
and see the omnipotent azure stone.
Grind corn.
Grind your hips.
Get to the tangled root of everything.
These legs are long lairs of want,
These eye planes are like stars of tourism,
the ecosystems of aquariums where the fish are crazy.
My integration will kill you.
Like a bad phoenix I’ll rise up
from my ashes,
pink.
My elation is straying.
Irenic,
My eyes close.
The man behind the curtain is hollow,
and the curtain has thousands
of loathsome love letters pinned to it.
My rabbit opines on my snowing skills.
The cold,
a little caustic,
Agrees.
In the refurbished grass
a wild warren dines.
I walk over,
pale as a breeze,
to feast.
Speckled woman,
a zing in the sun,
outshining everyone.
In the crumbling marsh,
the fairy of lights
is raging through the reeds.
But inside the sprinkled, speckled, freckled woman light,
there is a darkness drawing the empty city ever closer.
Tangerine wars have been waged
on this page of history,
And the man in the dark gray jacket is about
to turn the page,
and the new page is plastered with little boys.
Some grow lemons.
Some grow limes.
At the bottom of the page
the great Citrus Wars break out
like measles in a less half hearted century.
I am the virus that stalks through the trenches,
muting and murdering.
This war so tangy and pulped,
is only a mid day snack.
Extra-societal throngs
Perambulate through my old home.
Oh little yellow cottage!
I adore you!
With your evanescent doors,
your windows that only speak open,
your encapsulating buttercup bloom walls.
You were designed for me.
If I pluck a strand of hair
and leave it in a corner,
will you remember me?
I have loved you since you sprung up from the ground.
Turn away anyone who loves you less than us.
At the back of the throng a face perks up,
falls in love with your nurturing.
Sold.
White citrus,
Pale wedding.
The Champagne all bubbles and drunk.
The hour fizzy and fuzzy;
blue hand clasped with the year.
The year is forever rolling away.
Tell me again your private mythology,
your cramped beginnings.
Unfurl the fire,
bask in the bright heat.
Home is so many tailored calico outcasts.
The cat slinks toward the transparent door,
hunts Bethlehem.
What waits in the rusted cradles,
Mouth gaping,
wanting the middle of men?
Miniature Moon 