The plot is the one thing we know
yet its points lay us out
in the pasture like so much spilled
wine to the mud. & it looks sad
to be alive here as the snow fades
& returns—new to old
ice to white raven cloaked
in a shiver. The cordial’s
on the table to drink, to spoil
what we came to shake off
in the manner of a king’s nap.
Don’t ask how the buds are swelling
the moon’s got your address
& it’s got yours.
The nightgown’s got your shape
& your scent & I miss you.
I wrecked more than I knew I could
try to forget. What sad song to turn
the fuck up? Distract me from what
floor’s the elevator’s skipping, from
the un-greeted strangers or neighbors
attempting just a little unmet hello.
POEM FOR BLAKE
So drifted with a net to the web
to the face of one who wanted to
lure your dreams back to the 9th Ward.
Fuck the noise of the universe, Blake—
its hurt is smoldering
trusted with another from without
the messengers’ blank envelopes
are breath to bring the un-invisible
ink up to the eye.