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