My wife with the sex of a mirror
like a fireball through the fog at a new kind of atmosphere. There are meteorites,
snippets of filth music, cars on collapsed veins,
the scent of her immense body. She and dawn fall together
and I am made more beautiful by losses
and nothing since matters.
A bullring of the silent and girl-circled island,
the moonlight, a bright stream.
There are trees and they are on fire. There are hummingbirds and they are on fire.
I make a whole life out of it,
lights on my shoulder
drifting up to the lip of matter
to life again. The roofs, astonished by my appearing,
awake, the hour of my birth arriving
between cock and calm, the place that scripts such jazz
stunning my tongue. At least the city pretends:
River beds. Fire between the mattresses of the bed I was born in. Fire in my
bed, fitted, naked, almost
I leap into kerosene
Moving is a white lie, a soft arrow
Electric pony light. There will never be more of me
to heel. I’m the path so cut and red.
These are my hands.
I may be skin and bone,
now, I am stirring like a seed in China.
O wake me in my house in the mud
to the woman I am becoming. Leading, always, to my fear
are our bodies, simmering, clasped. Her hand
as in a farmer’s prayer for earth.
I walked, walking warm and vital breath, while stones watched, and wings rose,
then, one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms,
my wife whose hair is a brush fire,
my wife with the sex of an iris.