Its blue cathedral is trembling into the marrow
of my mouth. Its sharp houses split open

every string, then still into the trotting

Rooting in brittle mortar—
gypsum plaster, sand, and water—
bougainvillea grew around the arches,

To our ruined vineyards come,
Little foxes, for your share
Of our blighted grapes, the tomb
Readied for our common lair
Ants, we open you the cupboard;
Flee no more the heavy hand
Harmless as a vacant scabbard
Since our homes like yours are sand.

In a dream of sex & blindness,
boats grow rare on a river.

In a meteor shower which I feel but can’t see

A film of mist clings to the storm windows
as the thunder gets pocketed and carried away
in the rain’s dark overcoat. A good reading night—

just go crazy, I say now to the flower

The apples are a charcoal gray,
though they manage to shine hard
in the late afternoon's sheer. Rain

Miranda de la Rosa sang the blues
in crystal ball gowns
held his trophies high because

His method is published in a pamphlet.
Turning pages so quickly he resembles
some complicated threshing machine,

Everyone had the same IKEA bed.
                 She tied my wrists to hers, above my head.