I move my body meat smell next to yours,
Your spice of Zanzibar. Mine rains, yours pours—
Sex tropics as a way to not be dead.

I prop up the dog and wait for him to pee.
Three A.M. A phrase goes floating through my head:
“A still Prussian-blue night with rather weak stars.”

Sounds that came into the world in my lifetime        
already sound old-fangled: dial-up modems,
the implosion of a television tube 

 From the sky to the heavens’ heavens                                
 From the heavens’ heavens to the darkness on high                
     From the darkness on high to the upper dwelling       

        Swept Valley

Which sounds like something the wind
        would do:        

The door had a double lock, 
and the joke was on me. 
You might call it protection 

I wanted sky. That was my ambition. And now I’m being tugged 
Up a small steel mountain,

A burly chain beneath the car hauling my weight 

That’s a hot dog with fried onions 
(the kind that come in a can) and stripes 
of brown mustard and mayo. We each 

Slicked
    with a birther’s goo, it 
    gleams up green from the ground— 

That there’s a fun in funeral 
is goofus etymology, but a sensible reminder 
of the secret life in everything . . . how inside dear