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what if the big bang never happens?
Glyphs swim in the warm quark-soup
of peyote dreams. When I wake outside myself
letters fuse words buffet me
with cross-canyon calls
This morning voices are deadened
by snow. I breathe clarity in frosted windows
Mud flats breathe only bubbles
I search in vain for the prints of lobed-fins
Bacteria hurricanes stars
spin spiral arms
In an earthenware bowl on the table
pine cones draw Fibonacci curves
Heartened, I ladle words from alphabet soup
with the spoon of a runaway dish.
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sonnet in a soup tureen
On Snaildays we loaf around the house and
let the clawfoot tub keep the grip on the ground while
You tap your tunes down my xylophone spine.
saxophones wail climaxes into
Bloody Marys, sweet smoke, poems you compose
serenade me on a wide-bodied Guild,
My heart can barely hold words you bend and fold
into wire and tissue paper poppies you turn me inside out.
on hipped curves, raspberries on belly-buttons
for me in earthenware bowls of alphabet soup,
infinite tunneled hours of Snaildays.
dem bones dem bones Brassy bluesy
we suspend belief in jasmine foam.
loofah round breasts and apple-cheeked bottoms,
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