Glottology. I am in your bed now. Eye
doctor. Inventor of instruments and alphabets.
You want to paint my eyes. I see my body repeat in the chandelier.
I twinned myself, at every turn, because you told me you liked double serpents.
In your bed: Left over verbiage, equinox gate, lost psalm found—
The five-eight beat between the orbital moon and Venus. You played
me so well only charming things came out of my mouth bed.
You practiced the art of gluttony. Our Pulpit and platform w/o regard to sect.
Insect eye. In the chandelier.
How can I compare thee to the ocean's surface?
You told me how she contrived to share your father's bed.
Nuptial hymn. Inventors of a new zodiac.
Flipping through the cable channels at the Marriot.
Naked as jay birds. In the heat.
Boxing area. Revival picnic. Floating casements.
Prosody of trees, roots in the lowest ring of hell,
mid-branches our bed.
I wanted to add something more about beds, what is it?
And rocks collected at the breakwater—
Site for debris, ancient mythology, amphitheatre, cracker crumbs.
Where I tell you I am free, but am too busy to be free.
And now please, join me
in my small sentimental
museum of beds.