Go down to the greenhouse and gather the blooms,
then scatter them all in separate rooms--
the rose on the grate of the fireplace cold
to lie there and die there as we grow old.

The arrangements are odd and enigmatic,
the occupants frail and most asthmatic
afflicted with allergies, fear and despair
made worse by the stale and fetid air.

Though we gasp our devotion like fish in a boat
and confess our passion by rite and rote,
we're as blinkered as babes, as clear as bells
as we rise from the drink on our half-assed shells.

swallow builds its nest
from objects it can gather
steal lipstick, why pay?

I have two sharks inside me
swimming in tandem and holding my heart
between them like a little family
walking in the dark.

I send them gulps of air from outside
as if I were some sort of oxygenated charity
with a face and feet, operating in the world
on their behalf like a proxy or prosthetic.

Oh fishies, confined and angry in the bowl of my ribs,
here come those old blues again.
Why does life go on so long, demand so much,
slowly dribbling out the cracked glass of years?

I have had ideas all along, fine ideas
to open a ministry in a dumpster,
a ballroom in an attic, a cemetery
on a space station with the whole Earth for Ouija board.

I'm scared, fishies. Will the moon call you
and will you answer her tidal madrigal?
Will she require three voices, you and my heart?
Will you rise in glory, leaving me hollow, in salt and sorrow?

My mother used to say
"You'll fall and break your neck,"
with uncharacteristic hope in her voice
like gilt edging on a pendant.

It made me want to fall and break my neck
just to please her.

It made me want to hold on vicious hard
just to vex her--
to get down and dance like a Hottentot
around a *** of missionary stew.

So, last night I was up on a ladder hanging a picture.
I had little nails in my mouth,
a big old honking hammer in my hand,
and my foot on a banana peel.

Yep.
Fell and broke my neck.
Who's gonna feed my dog?

It was off to the nursing home for me
where I couldn't feel my *** or my broken bones.
Cantcha hear me knocking, I'd sing/scream
from behind the edges of my teeth
like a tornado in a jar.

I wanted to ask all the nurses personal questions.
I wanted to wheel down the hall like the runaway Number Nine,
making train noises and peeing in a bag.

These beautiful dreams that ne'er can be,
Roses forever left unbloomed;
How melancholy the dubious hour
When Desire's crimson comes to ruin...

Ah, what ****!
Somebody else will get my apartment,
After I circumvented the waiting list
By finding out who I had to kiss.

My mother used to say,
"You'll break your neck,"
And the ***** was right.

I returned to my body in an access of spite,
with my stupid neck at ninety degrees
and I was back! Just like that!
Happy Mother's Day, Frosty,
From your darling young, your serpent's tongue
falling hell-for-breakfast beyond your grasp.

Dear Katie,
                  please pardon the confusion--
mine,
yours,
the weather's.

In group they wanted us to talk about
someone who really loves us.
I started to laugh
                            like slipping on ice
I couldn't wave myself fast enough
                            to save a fall
and the laughing became an ugly cry.

They like us to do things with our hands here
so I made
                a love potion for you.
Yeah, too late. like checking a smoking oven.
But,
       I can still portion by intuition
like how much to kiss you in the morning.

I used
a pinch of rust from a love lock
the memory of five black tulips
and 1 tsp essence of caramel fudge ice cream--
       Jeff Buckley ballads to taste
        baked at 350 until the moon turns silver like your poetry.

Gosh Katie,
                   they took away my books,
said I needed to engage with others.
I went back to group today and said, whoa, back up--
let's do that thing
                              from yesterday.
I pulled my **** together this time, not like before,
and I said,
                Katie mon amour
                 Katie je t'aime je t'aime, je t'aime.
This one ***** goes, you're not French,
you're not even Canadian you ******* freak

But she never stumbled drunk up the stairs with you,
poetry ringing in our ears and the summer night on our skin.
More to be pitied than scorned,
                                                    I can hear you say.
Anyway,
              love ya girl
Katie mon amour,
              Our Lady of Tulips and the Silver Moon.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

A priest arrived by ambulance
to bless our sudden kiss

A doctor brought his bag but cannot
treat such things as this

My jewelry is just colored rocks
like pretty polished hollyhocks
in silver settings gone to curls
the same as any other girl's

but I could be your only love.

A flautist played our melody
in notes so fine and clear

That summer brought her midnights close
so that the moon could hear

the notes, the song so marvelous
the player played so long for us
the priest laid down his holy flask
the doctor blushed before he asked

if I could be your only love.

An urchin took a photograph
of you in uniform

You gave me spice and chocolates
to keep my fever warm

and lucky is the lucky bird
who calls and calls a wafting word
In this peculiar pregnant dawn
his curious and constant song

that I could be your only love.