Patio swinging, my legs
     up to push me
back and forth,
     a cover of sun-
  light dancing and
swooping in
  all of the arches
     the dips
        and the bows
the silent shapes
     of physical
       existence,

a jar of tea
in hand and a book
   of poems,
open like a corpse for
dissection, a body
to study, to poke,
   to pry to
              find
the way that
      insides make
       the outsides
       move along, shh
come along with me.

It's patio swinging in
   Oregon summer
where the mud wasps carry
   heavy,
    drooping legs like
     tired sunflowers who
     can't bear to see the sun
         overwhelm another Indian
                                                  sky

so hear, I lie,
where I'll always
lie
my bony legs pushing back the
patio swing
my doll hands performing
autopsies on
Ginsberg and Bukowksi
bathing in sunshine and
prosecting poetry