Marmalade will bring the devices. Keep them
damp and away from sunlight. Any sudden
shocks will set them off, or—if you’re unlucky—

Why did you pick this line of work at all?
I love the symmetry, the play of force,
the smooth precision of well-oiled pieces.

THESE ARE THE THINGS WE THINK ARE BEAUTIFUL:
Flames and money with colors. Good thick paper
rubbing between the fingertips like oil.

All ashen-tongued and peacock-eyed, Juno,
the goddess of the marriage bed, the gray
of heart, betrayed a thousand splendid ways

Bliss. Sits bright and bolt and lightening on the pillows
in the bed. The Maharishi said on days
like this one never minds. I’m fond, though, of the wheedle

It’s the rhythm and small plosive bombs in the mouth,
on the lips of the whisperer (me) who would like
in the best of all possible worlds to rhyme

Some fires you start, you can’t seem to put
out. It’s that one match
struck, which glowers throughout

I lost the time of day about three weeks ago
right after the siesta in the trembling rain,
right after the blue dream in the saffron forest,

First there was the revelation that I did not matter.
There was a kind of freedom in that.
I could stand in my office above the garage,

What does it matter where I speak from?
The dog lying breathless at my feet,
Torpid in this humid heat,