One Swallow Doesn’t Make a Summer
It’s a fiction. A glass of milk.
Baudelaire’s concubine. An eager
sugar. A lunar reader.
A diary tax. Conflation of cupboard
and springboard. Conquistador and concerto.
A way of happening, a mouth. A landscape
drowsy, full of contradictions and peach trees.
A song, an urn, the ashcan
of imagine. Glass spittoon, a broken
arm. The elegance of the letter f.
Green noise of teeth, their
clackclack at night when the maids
My absinthe bride-to-be
bury me in a barn with hair
husks, pollen dust.
Your eyes chasuble blue.
Sugar beet stench around your neck.
Widow cluster. Working
on the curtains, the wedding-ring quilts.
You quit us. And I was glad.
With your sad magnetic face around your aging lace.
and cobalt. Spasmodic.
Her bakelite bracelets
jangling. Random patterning
within a simple phenomenal system.
Sipping slivovitz on the terrace, she was
seized with mal de mer though she wasn’t at sea.
The windows are waking us
from revisionist dreams. Maize light
raising us from deep sea sleep.
Your words are seaspray,
agave. You are wafer weight
in my lightning mouth. I burn you
to strawberry. Leaf-lake. Glass bird