To get proper grapes you’ve got to
breathe on them some,
fog ’em up, thin the skins.

Seen that sign, back west a ways?
The one on the warehouse, in a movie marquee?
Blessed Hope, it says. Blessed Hope, she said.

She Said in the LADIES,
in the rest area LADIES on the road to 
Terre Haute. Plenty of angels, she said again. 

Female flesh 
Dissolving into artichokes 
Exploding stars 

The subway when
no one’s there, and then
the train is screaming.

Somewhere a boat is leaking
I don’t know where.

You have a little smudge on your forehead, dear,
like a smashed raisin cookie.

“O.K. imps, snot-freaks, pill-elves,
hi-fi fairy-fury flipsters and intelligences,
its out, all out now onto the rooftops—

Shades of brown: rust of the dirt road in
and the gullies deepening to umber,
the taupe of winter grass along the shoulder,

Dig that tomb
Where our kin
Rest their swords