I’m reading Italian Vogue and trying to set my spit on fire.
Where the **** did all these sneaky longings come from?
Yesterday I was a woman with a reasonable hoard of contentment.

Today I am shiverfish on this tiny rug between us
learning the shapes of my own long latent
and thank god still purring longing

these days my pages are full of the most horrible poetry.  Don’t give a fig kind of poetry, the kind of ***** greed to feel at all, to hang on kind of poetry that simply should not be shared.  So, here it is.

I’m making a dress.  I’m rinsing
my lungs out with vinegar.  I’m recoding my dreams into Sanskrit

I’m climbing out the window and taking the roof
I’m dipping the frogs in eggs and fire sauce

I’m reorganizing my clothepins collection
from spring to pinch and back again

I keep Neruda in my pocket and take
a hit every hour or so: *everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.