Sunday, November 9, 2014

there are crickets in the thickets

there are crickets in the thickets of yr dress ma am
lining the ankles a mess of ants
you grow into yr calves magma 
in a mold bleeds
up words into thighs like a resurrection

your springgreen sapling hips move like a reflection
Hart Crane never saw in Doan Brook when he was
yr sex a wound branch party
all the wound branches
and so glad
to join
at the center of an intersection 
like that Judy Blume spat pneumonia 
all over the place but knelt once she noticed 
the horse-mounted Captain Auxi;liary fell to her knees 
did she ever
when Buddha tossed seeds of sycamore
and oak thru the Heights,
her panic similar

to the panic of your sex

and i am but a poet
too busy memorizing bridges and shooting
clock towers the rise of Byzantine Greek and other
steeples to do justice to yrs

there are feathers behind those breasts
bustling with goldfish shine your neck as if it
were still pink and orange the light of the world

and beetles in yr eyes ma am
raspberries crush once made your lips
now dark wine smoke cynicism cheeks stuffed
with pinecones pussywillows two strokes
of Jususes cock are yr eyebrows
and from yr forehead springs red insects of
many legs an your hair is my hair and
when i hug your hair with my hands
i am as in you as a man

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