I think "I won't be like the penitent
mystic who waits for an egg in the arms of a
if you're up in the world like a baby
that you were a baby
were crying, that praying hands
hold me down light in dark corners
they paint the bright walls as to cover my pen.
I have traded my gun for a butterfly net
it’s a deep adamantine pixel hue
staging each atom
en route to its ‘probable flesh’
as a faux-larval dike like a hummingbird sac
where the beak damns the hole as a pen
keeps the flood of the empty page
stalled in committee.
Get off of one knee
between embryonic ill-health & the no sound of waiting
a bridal veil lifts on your own
several faces of wed to the poem sheer bliss
still something wanting I guess I could no more get down with tyrannical joy
than I could with the less merry tyrannies
surplus receptions & sun warmed champagne.
Can I handle the egg what kind of egg is it
O the poem not yet wanting being kind as I would handle
the fingers of saints?
I like the feel of their knuckles
the bone touching bone deep inside
somewhere god's fontanel
is as hard as their hand's are in mine--the butterfly
goes to the hummingbird feeder
is dumb & not nimble
it thinks that it is.