I SET THE SCENE WHERE I WRITE
Choking on her omelet evensong the hen–
cockpecked gentlewoman
with a housebroken soul-
flushes the egg with her septic note.
Nearby with hair cactus deflowers the wind–
low with skyhigh guilt
and sick with roots it throws
a birddistracting tree.
My tree, my song, my wind, my spines, my egg.
Reader, into my tender
mouth come and be my
teeth. Beast music and words to chew.
EPITHALAMION
Fallout of leaves in spring,
Or that extra fresh egg
I'll bang open and find
A wrinkled midget hen
Inside,
is
what I'm afraid of,
And what little girls are made of,
Especially the spice.
I laid a girl on a couch.
But she only said ouch.
