The Wreck of the Hesperus
I dwell in stacks, piles and junk drawers,
a disarray you appreciate as you take root
in my clutter, cohabitating with dust
bunnies and photographs, soup recipes
on paper scraps. Your alpha glyphs nuzzle
into my underwear drawer and quarter-
folded poems become the princessí pea
in the back pocket of my Leviís. I hold you
pressed into the pages of my books,
on the tip of my tongue, delicate as sushi,
in the improbable confabulations we carry on
in my head. And with baby oil and fast flying
fingers, I invoke you into the space between
my knees. For us there will be no nevermore.
poet in an empty house
He writes himself into the world its perfect
architect into imaginary
memories of bowling and deck chairs
pressed close in cool corners into the
serendipitous discovery of her musk
as she confesses in mute dampness.
His abstractions are carefully protected
until the phone jangles him back to half cups
of marsh-water and the repo man. Delilah
steals his hair; dreadlocks of absent-
(or single-) mindedness fall to scissors.
Yet he seeks her again, recognizes
the very shape of her molecules in a scrap
of silk, does himself to an aromatic arpeggio.