Inquiry into Coillisten to this poem
Enough of obsidian
and enough of fine linens
and figs, let’s thrash
down onto a maelstrom
of tusks, a madman’s
We’re not woodmice,
so let’s roil around
properly like a den
of prairie vipers.
It’s too brilliant
for all this formality,
let’s clamor loud
enough for our echoes
to frighten the wilds.
Inquiry into Architecturelisten to this poem
My sleeve isn’t full of trickery.
I don’t have a magic box to take you
away but return you unharmed.
I don’t have a key for the underwater
straightjacket and chains, and I hide
no impossible doves in my coat.
I don’t have visions or communion
with the beyond, but I’ll hollow
my body until it’s a crater, a posthole
for you to sink your tether into.
Or I’ll grow hair like a blackbear
cub if it’ll soften your sleep some.
Lay your head right here,
my lungs can be your creaking bed
or I can crack my bones and weave
a hammock from my tendons
for you to stretch between two
linden trees. Or I’ll eat wool
and down and rearrange my belly
into a nest for your kneecaps.
I can’t conjure. I don’t have any
sorcery to offer besides the will
to break this body into whatever
shape will keep you closest.