if you wander away from the picnic the wolves
but if the picnic is peopled in sheeps’ clothes
if the wolves are not wolves but far worse, moles
if the teething green of the field rubs off on your mind
if the wine is not blood but the pain of the sun
if the ground soaks through every paper place setting
if he is an asphalt, would you be writhing in the street
if i’m a low shoulder, hugging every curve if faith is an elastic
collision, soundless but for night’s slow weight on gravel ends
Winter sun’s tongue traced the spit-shined
anus under the sky.
The knee-high snowflowers
began to lasso their roots at the butcher’s
In the piney woods, a cleaving place
spirits the moon inside a cake dish,
We congregate in the spill. Light we can feel
streaming instants underneath.
Blue clot of light slides over the iris.
(any day now, passing through, dear life, the dear dead
(life will arrive, any day now and in passing, i’ll drop every name i know
Maniacal need night ushers in, hog
ties you to me, of me, and in, in,
the way the fatback blood is in, deep in,
the stropped and rutted hillside.