The wrinkled dome which houses this land is a
lithograph.
Lightning splinters it. A reproach.

*

Two years and a day after
we recited cities,
I watch you leave with her,

the carnival-haired lovely, with her 20-
20 vision and deliciously filthy mouth,

and my chest is a torrent of mint leaves.

*

There is an ire, a
curse beckoned by candles.
A hunger.
It knows no lull.

*

These words,
with their furred tongue,
their insolent sleep.

An adjective is not just facile.
It is a manacle.

I think
sometimes,
it is better to say the
essence, to say, simply,
the sky is beautiful today
or
please, don’t touch her, for, you see, I love you
or
you’ve taken something from me and I want it back

instead of always
reaching for the poetry

like a spear.