The grating roar of adolescence / blooming red between my legs, poppy, / the bright girdle coming out of the sky / like a halo.
Half the night I dream seaward / in search of resurrection
When I read Norman Mailer talk about / “the swoops, spooks, starts, the masks / and snarls, the calm lucid abilities of sin” / I feel the erotics of correctness.
Livid reminder of who’s in charge here. / Even the heart might seem subsidiary, going on / and on in its peripheral / metronome
No apology / for the constancy of their eating, / / these cows.
The newspaper headlines were all about a miraculous rowboat. / Meanwhile I was teaching kids what to do in case of bullets.
There are four of us still / here cleaning, others have left / silently. My job is to wash the windows.
Smoke drifts westward like saints seeking / Zion, a rose in the desert. / / This faith is a dark handcart / to pull.