TO SAMUEL AMADON
Be honest Sam, how bares your bow to storm
when hinge has formed & firs are cloying hest?
The bold tock-hobby to the fight informs
both novel heathers & an uddered chest.
Here's the cold shock: with bottles & bread crumbs
thrust to the bends, you teem to hike for less
than stows; you hook about for spittle numbs,
kept stout by spittle tokes till dours ingrow.
The figs beat in the sky, the brookman shuns
you, scuttle boy. Fresh come, he's best to know
how sprockets sop & claw where lazes glow.
He books at the few embers thrust hay-bound;
he pots with fissures, lets hoods lorry blue,
hands back the pliant still, then skies it through.
THE SUN WOULD BE A HORNET SOONER THAN A HOUSE ON FIRE
Three-fingers of porch facing a dark whatever & we
won't need ice for the short glass
as we've realized all the moon has a mind for
is some blue rocks where we already know the road
& wouldn't either way go. Bring us
helium & some god to cough up a reminder of fire
since we've read all our books & dried all our sheets
& washed hands & brushed hair & swept
the rind off the wall & piled corks next to the broken glass
& told the power company to shit in their own woods
& tied the louder donkey to the neighbor's above-
ground pool & ushered the new
schoolteacher from the bicycle store back to her room
in the rectory next to Father Bill who asked
to have his gums bronzed but we didn't have bronze
so instead stole his collar & put a bag over his head & shot him
full of pain-killers until he forgot who he was
& where he was from & we left him one town away
from the sea where no one had ever heard of him
being a priest. We hiccupped & we thundered
& now sit on the porch watching for our dairy cow
who is hanging in parts in our trees & though it was us
who did it still we hope back she'll be
because we miss her much as milk she sleeves.