The Farther Reaches of America

I'm going to have afternoon out, out
with a stick and the figure of a beetle
on the end. Got to swing the simple doors,
don't I? We run things like Canada
and it's very cold and my breath shuts
your ears.

I do love my woman and I do
next to the toilet, showering in summer
under vacant lights. My love is saying so
to the policed place in your white head.
I hew jewels and encrust them and stuff
soft felt in forest green boxes. I tell you
everything I'm doing, it is spit.

The skinniest scruff tinkers in the twilight
and you close your eyes, coming to. The world is
sheet glass and hard hats hauling chains across
your flatbed. World-making I say is parading
horseback: the men inside the men unzip. You made it.
And if we had your hands we would have them getting smaller,
to say Beetle, beetle into your apparel.

You want to be pressing a turtle down
with your foot. You want wanting the very same
spring turned over. A brick of books on your
head, your going, going and your wifey hair is just
as well laid on and burred.