I sit on the toilet with you.
I criticize your wardrobe when you’re looking okay

Naked TV wrestlers
turn my arm through the gentle ambience of Newtonian
              space.

Who would think it ever—
lasting? Patent, it seems, to be nothing
but what it is: one of the summering

Young, nondescript,
well, she's a little fat,
the life and fall of thick '

I'm the one who has imprisoned the rain dragon.

You know the story? About the dark-eyed girl who seduces
the holy man and ends the long drought.

No lily grows from coal, the obscene mole descends
And wends, bending ahead of pressure from his home,
Digging the window and the door, filing the floor

It seems no air or any other thing 
Pretends to help; and you, defeated now,
But visibilities, your balm and clue,

He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.

Ellen and I Go Back—at least as far
as her pre-op days when she was still a man
and minced each midnight through the local bar.

rejoice, in fact,
over the quiet self-complacence of the toaster.