Ultramarine
She was throwing grapes to the birds
when I noticed her rosy-tipped fingers
and long dark hair bound above her head
like a fathomless black deed
as she noticed she turned
her face smiling eyes crackling
Much later I found the way to her body
and there was not a soul but a churchyard
beautifully decorated by ivy
and veronica colored heliotrope
I felt crisp fear at how she moved
in a menacing but superhuman way
And in a flash of understanding
I knew she was unfinished yet destroyed
that she had run upon the lion for the wolf
truth had stepped out holding a mirror
and I felt the urge to bury my heart
in the dope-sick warmth of her chest
I Want to Go into Your Lying Down
Head
“Into her lying down head / His enemies entered bed” Dylan Thomas
And steal a secret
yank it out like a car stereo
wires trailing behind frayed
from the quick theft
reselling it to the cosmic pawnshop
of your perception
I want to go into your lying down head
into your towering conscience
find the day residue
speckled about your dreams
and deliver you mouthed nights
until atomic joy washes you awake
I want to go into your lying down head
unpeel your feelings and
vulture them so I become them
clad in your atmosphere
I’d sketch you like a child’s drawing
with the speech bubble
“Why can’t I be you?”
I want to go into your lying down head
to throw a party for your memories
so I could meet each one
shake their hands and mix them a drink
combing your hair softly afterwards
in front on the television
as we rate our guest’s anecdotes
I want to go into your lying down head
to find the hiccups
insecurities adjacent to uncertainties
doubts shelved alphabetically
orderly as your teeth
as affectionate as the ribs
covering your unknowable altar
But mostly
I want to go into your lying down head
to get out of my own
escape the asylum
the wild animals in there
at the water’s edge
cautious and timid like an Irish goodbye
to see if the sky darkens or lightens
when I brush against that brainstem
K
Starry declination talking
to yourself again
you leave so quick and flush
I fix a drink in the dark
This will leave a wound
fingered by the sky and
surely to be autopsied
for weeks
That’s where we’re moving
trot to gallop
carried to the abattoir
grasping an oyster-colored mane
Anti-body night
do double murder
and know that if jealousy takes three
then it has sides
Above the fuselage of a shining plane
smooth orange and white
blinks the sky
I smile for intensification
Love again has woven
its extensive index
into another breast
and I’m essentially unknowable