The one-armed man
made six cottage windows for each door,
although he did not want to see his cars

This is my lawn. I planted it, I grew it, 
and I work hard ensuring it’s attractive. 
I keep it clear of every type of pest.

We have all been there once. Some, more than that.
They forced us all to visit one September.
But that was such a long, long time ago.

The blossoms, and there are hundreds,
carry each a touch of salt.

Only then did it feel like waking.
Never, nothing. What could he have told her?

Call the sparrows in the yellow tree yellow.
They are brown. Call her hip the arc
of the day where it disturbs

“Phyllis, be done with me once more,
as long as, a day or two later,
you declare peace again.”

All are ghost faces, and all of us sick
walking in our own sick skin. I am myself
here to avoid you, hovering always

As a doll I flew on a plane
for a lover, convinced his fists
uncovering my blood meant: win.

This is how I have always drawn myself,
skirted and level, not half so spiral as what, as me.
This is how I have always, and suffer it