Brando

I push my nose to your hand like a bud
believing you are a caper, rock star,
that you have circular glasses
like Freud

Derrida “dies” I wonder, someone was by

that you teethe on my jaw, that back
in the room there flexes

this dark under a dress


we slap the cow with the back of a shoe, sleep
on top of a golf cart

to recite Chaucer
in the dark in the dirt and know—

whiff what Brando caught by the tail
into the bed into the dead mouse

pictures of the tiny face and hands
think a little, click our tongues


what we are doing having
children, pitiless children their forms
lighting me like flowers
on my sabbatical

dead bees on my desk
wet spots on the newspapers:
little stems, petals where you wipe
your hands there are forms a bug
turns into a scab on my cheek


asking or pinching your dreams
like fish, fragrance-driven, biting violets
chrysanthemums
rhododendrons in quick bright bursts

in the drawer beside our bed spitting
in the little mouth a prayer?


I turtle to the kitchen for tea wait
sleep in my trousers lie there
like a discrete thing yoke you, lift off
fully grown


you dream crocodiles
you go down to death in there

I read Thel and you go down the train comes
the doors go down, the box of meat drops
on the snow


the moment I look tinctured
like children, flush with pulp,

how that woman
ate a pear on the bus

I cut a face from them book
and pin it to my stern it is red
it is just like you

whether the wire is still in me, if I am Mick
when you stand there
twisting yourself into birds

I eat clean a pomegranate socket,
you soon will be done too