And I say my poems are getting too loose
flopping like clothes on a line
bright colored Bodies

Very old bodies always seem to be melting
like fetuses, or flaccid smelly large white lumps
of mozarella cheese. They are as shapeless

Don’t take me home, at least not yet;
Let’s have another drink, and sit
and talk—I want to be your woman,

It’s not
because I am a land
lover

When I wake, the sheep are eating apple peels just outside the screen, the trees are heavy, soaked, and hushed, the sun just rising. All seems calm, and yet somewhere inside I am not calm. We live in wooden buildings made of two by fours, making the landscape nervous for a hundred miles. 

And no, I won’t be coming home this year,
although I am bereft to hear your peacock died.

After the first 24 hours
the road begins to
disappear.

Crazy Annie walking down the hot sidewalk in July
don’t go no farther than she’s got to.

What have I been disemboweled for?
Where are the gods I was told I was made of?

I strode sideways through adoring crowds, till the day my perfect profile crashed through a storefront.