85.
Every page is precious especially the
blank
the story here is her round face her
round eyes wet
nothing more to say hence ready to
begin again
a man is a wheel on a mountain road
I’m talking tantra but to an empty
room
xenolith they built the structure on
as if to say
earth gives us something like a day
where is nurture in all this where is
Bernini
the woman shape that taught us how to
pray
boys in the clouds hair comes through
the hat
the sun moves secretly from house to
house
but no one knows the father.
86.
The breeze knows these
legends of the mother-house
her hands pressed firmly on the
territory
noises annoy her most
no one’s children clattering in grass
and in the sky they mow the clouds
the mother-house is guilty of the sun
she made it cooked it over pine cones
in her cave
till it glowed ardent hell and
hydrogen
then she sent it to the sky to
measure us
mind us little children and a rock
she spat up too
to light our nights from tryst to
tryst.
