leagues of copper wire twist into our umbilical. i am new jersey with carelessly tossed limbs on chair and sofa, sore wrists, the blank screen eye, and sacha the houseplant your moon- i am the fetus- are you the mother with your ephesian diana breasts? your blood lips purse in maine. the cat's in the colander, you giggle. your voice is a stream. silver fishes dart and the random drowned fly. light patterns webbing the eye. ever trickling in soft oboes. not the niagara but more sweet for its honey. folding towels at your mall job as your white teeth recite lady lazarus. reading D.H. Lawrence on your break. those asshole maine boys with their backhoe intellect and big penises. i love you better. go, you say. your phone bill could solve the national debt. words ready for leaving like autumn. but your stream flows swiftly then- and orinoco. your window overlooks the steel gray sea and the graveyard.
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