even when under a round red sun
he walks his dog
which is rarely
and mostly
to avoid itchy tidbits
of his other existence

the leash’s relaxed sway
reminds him
of curves in her hips
a turn in her eyelids
of her voice’s
somehow impossible music
in the vacuum of space

and she slowly
rises everywhere


there are these ideas
I have read them
heard them
you have too
maybe believed them
how we ought
to manufacture
a society woman
these hollow town halls
bang in a nail there
tuck that handy pvc
plumbing pipe in
punch holes for
brassy plaques
tweak every hinge
to swing smoothly
a custom woman
smelling seductively
of pine and paint
ready to be filled

with government

framed up for
freely elected
legislatures and
feminine friendly
senates houses cabinets
pass to her with an
arbitrary majority
her behavior
her liberties
her options

there are these ideas
carried on placards

but your woman

will emerge from the
hubris of earth like
milkweed of its own accord
making tender pale pink
flowers you have no
rights over
and no way
to improve
she will offer her
thorny pea green leaves
to you or the indifferent
sun as she does
not along anyone’s

not even her own

mores and codes and edicts
you cannot hammer and nail
vote and protest
groom and prune
your woman

you can only live with her
while you marvel
at the feeble inabilities
of your helpless fingers
that have crafted so much
erected so many things
but could not cobble
this simple human to love


she swore she
loved cauliflower
but really she loved
the butter and salt
and herbs de Provence
and mussels and prime rib
and scalloped potatoes

he swore too he
loved her
but really he
loved making love
at three o’clock
in the afternoon
he loved red lips
and red wine
PBS documentaries
and walking on chilly
evenings as wild grasses
turned brown that time
of year and smelled
of dust and mostly

and mostly the way she
prepared cauliflower


I hope there is
leniency in heaven
for such as I
pseudo academics
criminals molded
by too many bad poems
and not enough
generic coffee
strutters and spouters
hunching inanely indoors
over pencils and attempting
to hack beauty from air while
watching critically through
panes of safety glass
plumbers and electricians
they accomplishing real work
making the world a
more marvelous marble
by simple industry of
their nimble hands
their practical minds
their homely children
learning of America
of semi-sacred Sundays
of green lawns and the
rights of free men

I hope there is
forgiveness in paradise
for the arrogant for
us rationally wicked
us judgers and muggles
living off the magic
of real wizards and witches

I hope there is
in heaven
for we who
do not believe
in heaven


Taking his eye like a meatball
between his thumb and finger
considering it most carefully
shaken that he could contradict
himself so plainly or at least
appear to do so in front of her
she there exposed and bare belly up
softly heaving waiting watching
his oddly contrived coherence
his humming gorilla flagging

he avowed nothing popped his discretion
garlicky with some sort of truth
onto his tongue belched it down
and with one good fixed meatball open
gently licked her belly button


sometimes while strolling will I step
clean into a still-life painting
just walk right in and hinting
because I sort of like it that the deep
distorted perspective will let me keep
going on in farther and farther wanting
to find your form in roundish fruit hunting
for your nude back among bottles your lip
maybe over that book or near the top
of a delicate and weirdly bending
bundle of lilacs find you at last standing
small as we are beside an almost smaller grape
I clutch you lean us both backward topple us onto Renoir’s palette
we formless swirls of oil now mixed primary as we can get