That’ll be that bum raccoon pair now, rumble my dumpster!
All-hours backwoods masque, Soldier-of-
Fortune loves Prima Donna for the little ways her
fingers do fishheads & for the inquisition
she permits her tongue. For my part, I pick over best
in speckled foxgloves: see my ad in Odds-
’n’-Ends, apparent weekly starting next best
vexed issue. Take, for my own good, care. Sniff what mustier yet
bouquet foments: this morning’s oeuvre stars me
fumigating in flying colors such lingerie,
table linens & lingering sheets as string along the patio,
even as in aerosol I next brush up my static-blue bouffant,
incorporating what flattering lights these rosy
windows glance off mirrors even as I miss
my image in them terribly. Did I mean to revisit
romantic indiscretion, the spiced bower?
Trellis, sundial, trippingly the ardent letter stashed
ashen under the (which one?) flagstone? Today
the day & this the very stricken hour I’m positive
we set? More mere animal racket, though, & persistent
stink: varmints taking liberties upon my (I admit it)
riches of embarrassment, hot toxics of carnal
conversation. Love of my life, I ramble on. Soupcon
in the air of a ghost some orderly somewhere
unwinds out of old gauze bagged in biohazard.
I remember my lips swelled & bled. Bruised over
the pelvis, I staggered. I could fuck a stone-cold stone
rock, I thought, if it were he, if he pressed his nostrils into me.