love poem 08.09.05

I'm snug as a bug in a Barthes book
and you have stolen my hole collection
You put them with my mouth guard,
pictures of giraffes balanced, a dry air bear,
cottage cheese, the chewer and of course
the chewy

“All the delights of the earth”

We.

Sit, laying our hands like wire.
On the table.

Wood of the moon
to touch your head.

* * *

The moon looks good on the table.
It is a holster.
You are holding it.

Your head is balled on your elbows.
And screwed through your hands.

* * *


The sun is put into a yellow edge.

They bring breads’ smelling
so forth, the table that is a fold
with two plates.

And the moon, the rust.
The rust of waited on
talk.

* * *

Your head.
And hands.

In the position of finding out
so to speak.

“We are eaters”

They bring on
pink shanks and spinach
artichokes and then
creme

* * *

Bitter Dogbane at dusk.

Apo, meaning “away from.”

Some of the time
wind is it, filling the rows,

of rows of pink and white.

In drifts shadows on
the chaparral.

I push my hand on you
and my other one.

* * *

No, on.

The sight of us going
underneath the road

The bats. Before anything
it sounds like a lot,
remote flipping.

* * *

Their tails
are split their legs are
tick-tick btw their
dark little tents
are torn and smell
so distinctive

love poem 09.08.05

sitting in this hammock
is a harmonica

if you please get me
a decanter