By the time basil grew on my shoulders
I had become a sloth
Listening to the gold beaked-angel
Fight it out with the cuckoo bird.
Brooding nights followed translucent afternoons.
Forgive my pigeons, and the tree climbers
Who never stop wailing about the liquid age.
What else is there but to live
The nightmares of eminent seers?
I say unto you my people
This is a time assailed by a traveler,
Rocked to sleep by the pulse of his thoughts.
The princess waited for centuries.
The king died on his ox.
My hands spin a blue dres for you, Lucinda,
A thread pulled from frostbitten gardens
And calcified dunes. I follow
Soldiers and evening bells.
I feel the absent fear return
Bearing an address inscribed on the corner
Of the eye, chicken hearts.
This will always remain
An October swindled from the lower notes
Of the flute, from clay drippings
And ears of corn. I'm writing
The silent diary of a lantern
Fueled by a plum. Here are the hands
Of a peasant singing the protocols
Of basement rats.
I take to the river.
I tend to my punctured fur.
Damned arrows of stimuli!
I crossbreed the vernacular
With howling wolves. Then
The dying stumps bring about
A change of wind. Flocks of eunuchs
Begin picking cotton. I hide
In the trench of the button hole.
In the box there are broken
Urinals and vials of perfume.
My pocket is full of rapture and excess.