A Series of Images at Night
a small moon-rabbit
stands on its toes, leaps
to avoid a car
a barely-human figure
made of bone and tissue
ignites and bursts into poppies
the clitoris, a leaf,
becomes a light bulb
under someone’s tongue
everything’s gone wild;
the fog looks more and more
like a person
Advice on Wolves
To counter insomnia, drink a half-cup of wolf’s blood.
If you meet a wolf in a cave, feed him your leg.
When a baby is born, let a wolf lick her forehead for good luck.
Never trust a wolf who emerges from a shell.
If a wolf’s fur changes color, this means he’s fond of you.
There is no such thing as the Big Bad Wolf—
humans invented him from our fear of teeth.
To prevent a reoccurring nightmare, sleep on a wolf’s head.
To become a wolf, make love to the nightmare.
The hours gather wildly at the end of the day
then calm themselves
and fall asleep in the dim lamp light
It is during these times I often think:
I am wrong about everything
Crack-throated and weary, I collapse—
a heavy mass of bone-waves and weeping skin
Buried in soil, disconnected at the limbs
I want someone to comfort me,
to pull me up by the roots and kiss me
The day proceeds like an aging alcoholic
too wet and slow to escape from its own drunkenness
I don’t know how true this is
but I don’t question much these days
Us In Winter
What happened, happened slowly. Like a drama,
only wet, textured, and real: the glass
candleholder he held, the little flame, the easy tilt
forward. The way he pressed his palm
against my hip, the spaces between us
that weren’t touching. Then the hit of wax, quick,
that ran down and settled itself in the cave of my spine.
Your breath laughed in my ear and you rose up again.
Desire is staggering, the way it starts
from the bottom and spreads.
In the morning, we ate eggs and sliced avocado.
A car drove through the slush outside.
Empty beer bottles lay on the table.
We sat close, not bothering to count time.