The celebration stops, like a sparrow hitting a sliding-glass door.
The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.
My husband shovels snow from flower beds back onto the drive.
What I eat, that heap has eaten. What I like, it gets, but less of.
Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.
I know about sex. It’s not a cardinal flying into the wrong window.
They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.
We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.
I blush whenever that room in Ensenada comes to mind.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
Welcome to my bed. I have these two beers, do you want them?
I lie down and see you one bed over; therefore God exists.
Time is a hearse and horse, a carrot and stick, a window and widow.
The stars begin to turn clockwise, freeing us of all consequences.
If every present is possible, how can we have eyes to see?
The pupils are toothpicks. The lake is a sky with a circle beneath.
He loves me. That’s half enough: he’s the only man around.
I slipped one sparrow black and shivering into my mouth.
I'll pick a black card of luck for you: star, pinkmoon, mirror, ostrich eye.
i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.
I’m going to save up against the flood and stagger to carry nothing.
Exhausted, androgynous, delirious, I delight in my many parts.
our minds are not the same if they were the same you would be here
In hushed awe they talk of things to come, a golden time of flowering.
Even as a child, I was skeptical—testing God when He wasn’t looking.
I dug a hole in you; I jumped (here is the church, here is the steeple).
He greets you with a kiss and marries your elbow to walk the path.
Before there was air, sublime silence. There was no one not to hear it.
I told you how I’ve always been attracted to little violences.
Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.