A round white troll with a black, greasy
heart shuddered and hummed “Diogenes,
Diogenes,” while it sloshed the wash.

First, go to Hell—I mean, seek out the Halls
                of Hades and his consort,
Persephone the Dread. Here’s what you’ll need:

I agree, O heart, that my poetry is not easy to take in.

Just put a wineglass and some wine in front of me;
Words will fall out of my mouth like apple blossoms.

For the raindrop, joy is in entering the river—
Unbearable pain becomes its own cure.

Travel far enough into sorrow, tears turn to sighing;

I came out of what was not my mother.
When my eyes cracked in the light,
and I looked up, it was at a germ-lamp,

The thick-walled room’s cave-darkness,
cool in summer, soothes
by saying, This is the truth, not the taut

You bring the Red Devil back fast,
left wrist whirling in the circle
as the line fills the spool—

but no one is always on your side
not even a poet

As my wife buys our daughter her first bra
I wait beside the escalator
with our packages from Sears and J.C. Penney’s,