i’ve stubbed my tone again against the edge of some other universe under the weekly farmers market near the free whiskey samples retired dentist who summers in santa monica who explains volatilization charcoal filters in his coronavirus mask the perfect gift for clark
i’ve taken off again around pluto in the byzantine eyes of man nothing to do wife away
i’ve glanced out again from my crashing self sea
i’ve named myself again spoiled oil spilled spinning top approaches edge gravity angel’s share bitter ship gasping heir to a ruined king- dom of collapsed arteries rough concrete sidewalk gone feral over rough dog- wood root
So much light, dear oblivion, night after night; I offered up my body. You refused. I drank. Begged, really. Said my dreams, you don’t belong here. Some countable mornings ahead, crouched in the internet’s dark corners, hands reaching into prosaic brightness, not to gather, but offer: News spreads of a virgin conception. And so much light.
Prayer peels soul from body. Robin-eyed memory of never known. The scent of winter jasmine, he writes. I ascent, with neither knowledge nor trace experience. Mouth crawls with the acid taste of spider webs. Begging, really. Dear Oblivion, I continue asking the drain — conduit from, passive voice, channel away — to do the hard work. Three-fourteen a.m., a mournful eight-legged poet struggles to drag a stone amphora the size of a casket across the backyard — no vacancies.