I can answer only to Adonis—
call me that, and you'll find I'm easily
managed. Some time ago, I was promised

I have not forgotten, neighbor,
our red brick rowhouse, tiny and quiet
with the window always cracked open
even in winter

In the high school band, knees furiously
Pumping while atop her hat
She wore a great white plume. 

Was there room in museums
Especially set aside for other
Museums when they visited? 

The moment's denting inward like a can,
The poet wrote in a fever of expectancy
But the line went nowhere, it had nowhere to go.

Dying of thirst,
I long to share the fate of the wild irises
Each raindrop must seem to whom the size of a boulder

Through the toxic atmosphere,
   beneath the neon light of a pistachio moon,
         I see my lover's perfect, unkempt
hair, which ends in shapely scalpels

Then I was younger and between towns
where people waited for me to sell them
either Styrofoam cups or glass figurines,

The fine meat of its back
was opened, the steel flourished
with such quickness and artistry

The fine meat of its back
was opened, the steel flourished
with such quickness and artistry