From under the pillow I heard vaguely
promises being made and broken
by the house.
I recited childhood prayers composed long ago
by gray-headed lobsters so far from the seashore
Even my toes and toenails filled up with
loquacious acid humming and numbed up
The paralysis of literature took hold and squeezed
words passed by and through in swarms and turned
I read the footprints and smelled the old honey
and remembered where the plugged up jar
Thinking of tasting it and tasting its amber
eloquence I became as lucid as september
My previous life got lucky and became
a household name but too late I was
At thirty I was on a bridge surrounded
by cars with no drivers and I was forced
to walk between them.
The hair on the back of my head took over
telling my heart and hands what to do
I closed my eyes sensing all motion by sound
the harsh clanging separated from my thumping
Since then the house and the pillow breathe
the deep and the shallow for me leaving me
free to decompose.
I wash my own dishes one by one
then break them against each other
two by two.
The starling in the window chortles to itself
the artists tell me I can do it if I try
but I am decomposing.
Put all protection into a pot and toss it
off the roof into the mosh pit azure
One potato two regattas three refusals four
open all the windows and tear off all the doors.
We’re what’s left.