interest me, in me, lost woman amongst the garden cubes.
the fire that, finally, really burned, in real time — our home
in maine drowned under the saint george river. yes I
tore the body
that we wanted
plucked the weeds we wetted
(the bare chests)
when the bears crawled, at night, to our bed (burned),
we made it out alive because we were not yet sleeping.
it was alright because you — gosh — held my hand
to find that I am
to see that I am taking you
(in our scrupulous car)
in the canyon we sang out the melodies. what we missed. blankets.
dried throats. the hermits within us could live (these dead men
missed us, like the police with their bullets —
made it out
alive) fishing. ended up in alaska where it was cold because sin was weather because I
liked you. you held my hand. both of us afraid to say:
love was like how our dog was only thirsty. how we had not had water in three years.
I am constructing a world in which you forgive me like the tortoise: for when I spilled
wine on your sheets; did not take the subway to greet you
where the planes landed like grand combs of teeth. nights grew late so I
stroked your teeth. still: silence (I have always been bade — by you —
to speak away my silence!) where the only verb I know ought to have been.
to here: still unknown! that I am in a bathtub. that this new house will too one day
freeze over before hell can even come into consideration. consider this: I liked the river
sand the best, then the snow in alaska, now the dirt that we trail like roaches onto the carpet
each day it rains (everyday). we have yet to live in the city. still I imagine the lights
there to be like that which shines from the corpse of the first dog we ever owned.
here is to the dog days! clinks shared between our two glasses. it is not
that I enjoy the taste of wine, though with you —