in a din of light
meth being little pleasure now
I become very homely
and sing a thin thought
all day o rat
I work as a blind heart
winter settling in my mouth
still and sad
you dancing
raw in the world
this first night that I ever
lie with a stone
Bought a tree in a pot,
took it back to the flat to occupy a nook
where sunlight guttered from a lack of air.
A tree in a pot is an odd thing to see.
Roots are not meant to resemble a club foot,
a wrist without a hand, an unthinking fist.
Grotesque the feelers with no way to grow
but endless recursion, open, shut —
a dead brain in a body automatically fed.
Branches without birds look out at birds without branches.
Only the cat on the windowsill seems lonely
for whatever all of us once were living for.
on a day of tragedy
words dance out
of the mouth
accidentally said little word
to end the quiet
no one to talk to
supper is only a pear
cold people
work at the ice
even over love
our one well
Halfway home on the train,
my tongue discovers something hard
between the molars, left over from
a rushed breakfast
at a diner in Brooklyn.
The molars break it open
& the tongue remembers: rye toast.
Our last meal together.
Caraway seed.
no home where
I find my home
and a well
of ice
my best curses
wore out
so I was forced
to make a cry
like the desert night
if ever I can live
on my knees
out of all minding
lying with my journal
for days
a hot sandwich
of security and regret
in the evening quiet
I confess my ruin
I wrap up in paper
my rotten heart
gone quiet
like another ear
I shall be out
of my mind all morning
free of sleep
my member falling out