December 4, 2000
errant
Any single night is stupid.
There's a rant lurking in my elbows.
Where else would it live?
It avoids my patchwork heart,
that soft steamed onion.
Dear Oblivious, how should I know?
What is it worth, that pile of clear coins?
What is it worth?
Please buy my skin, my skin is paper and
my blood is clotted ink.
When magnets fail at midnight
and wrinkled ruses languish on the stairs
when soft flesh falls like crepe
and rose is tan and bristles on the cane,
How should I know? How should I know?
What to reach for? Where to put my hand?
and how to drop the frozen fruit I'm juggling
juggling yet so stolidly with my jailed hands.