Limits confound like a headache,
the white conversation
helicopters; out among the same
razed discourses—
each one goes looking
for what can only be found
in the cloudlands of the laid head,
not a damp mattress
in the brittle keep
of someone’s sotto
voce.
Until the terms of confinement
are emblazoned one does not
remember
to seize, prize the mouth of the
falcon to put in head & look
for the real, dirty truth
of the dream.
The nervous bourgeoisie
will pull apart the house
while you trace the pentagram
with lipstick & soot;
this is what we never discussed
in polite society: I
am the child
of
Belial.
Middle managers
in the drab corners
exchange quarters;
O you loud heavy
ships out to sea
don’t leave without me
without leaves
in the garden of my
betrothed.
Snapping off woods of home
to feed the tribe
king and confusions
through the room
ship stops by shack
some little vultures
some screams of tankers
outside, the dry holds
of husbands. Royal jelly,
dried shark fins, firewood,
wash bowl.
wash bowl.
