Primary Love Poem

I push my nose to your hand like a bud
believing you are a caper, rock star,
that you have circular glasses
like Freud

Derrida “dies” and you were by
There flexes in the back room

this dark under a dress

we slap the cow with the back of a shoe, sleep
on top of a golf cart

to recite Chaucer
in the dark in the dirt and no–

dead bees on my desk
little stems, petals where you wipe
your hands there are forms
of things, children, pitilessly their forms
lighting me like flowers
on my sabbatical

a bug turns into a scab on my cheek

biting violets
rhododendrons in quick bright bursts

in the drawer beside our bed spitting
in the little mouth a prayer

I turtle to the kitchen for tea wait
sleep in my trousers lie there
like a discrete thing yoke you, lift off
fully grown

you dream crocodiles
you go down to death in there

I read Thel and you go down the train comes
the doors go down, the box of meat drops
on the snow

the moment I look tinctured
like children, flush with pulp,

how that woman
ate a pear on the bus

I cut a face from them book
and pin it to my stern it is red
it is just like you

whether the wire is still in me, if I am Mick
when you stand there
twisting yourself into birds

I eat clean a pomegranate socket,
you soon will be done too

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