This is probably a love poem. Few are not. You, or he himself (the object)
will ply open this not especial meeting of thread and glue and, say, Irish rag (two pound weight)
? I do not decide my stock, yet this right angle where information and chewed tree and silk
agree the signature and nod, smirk, cough, think you know everything
go to hell
I am not done lying and you, or he himself, never stopped
All autobiography is travelogue, map play some of us just get around more
our beds are plains, the prickly Transvaals dotted with hoofed traffic beasts
with nautilus horns, seven legs, recessed fangs (or wings) plus voles, racing
headfirst in the underbrush humble as lint
our beach towels are as telling as dirty cafeteria trays, where monsters pool & flick
in the wet corners crusty and smelling of sour wheat
our clothes, stained & obvious as newspapers, commingle & knot make waffled
pyramids, cotton pagodas, damp lighthouses manned by dust mites
Whatever we own or caress or breathe on or slurp or pick at or bump against or visit or waste tells on us, spills the beans, makes with the goods, testifies so
I thrush to print, I publish and perish
In dynastic Egypt, words were procreative carve “snake” into a basalt block, a wall
of crisped mud, or a palm trunk & expect hisses, blinding spit expect diamond heads and pulsing chevrons the carpet viper the spotted night adder the bandy-bandy the mulga the lisping
krait the rinkhal any black and twitching scourge
we know so little magic now