n/a

Tired of the god's dull drone
in my ear, my fear of salt
on balding treads and snow

piled up after years of lying
on its side. One eye blinks
and seasons rotate like blenders.

Now it's spring in the West
and history books fly off my shelves.
I hide their vowels under my fingernails.

When I nibble my blue pen fondly
the dust of your name is
a film over my left eye.

Does that woman's head still spin
on the gold coin that never
turned up? Did her milkweed-drip

signal your arrest? Where
have you hidden the easel?
My radiant ink still stains

after all these pages, rooms and
moves from weather to shelter
to cave. I'm a totem

glowing green on a bloodstone,
the heart calling its last meal
to banquet. And you, my love--

you are my final statistic, cellophane
glistening on fragrant meat, preserved
in my cup of hours.