you lay yourself bare
before me in classical
proportions — your grief
laden, pendulous, hips curved
around the womb of losing
They are young, thin, just getting by.
We see them from above, sleeping naked,
half beneath quilt squares of bright colors,
his hand cradling her breast above the swell
of her pregnant belly. Morning light fills
the room from the high east window.
The cat is impatient for breakfast,
already feeling neglected.
These are notes for a strange poem that wants to be beautiful.
It starts, you will not be surprised to learn, with the full moon
behind broken backlit clouds, shining through in a pattern
that reminds me of the Crab Nebula, words you will now
Google Image Search, and in the process you will learn
it is made of stardust, remnants of a supernova explosion
whose light reached Japan in 1054 A.D., and now we are thinking
of your Samurai poem and wondering if stardust is made of fragments
of old poems that have echoed across space since the Big Bang.
What’s the difference between naked and nekkid? Nekkid, you say,
is fixin’ for trouble. What’s the difference between violin and fiddle?
Fiddle, I say, smells like beer. My hand is on your damp back
as we push through the crowd to the dance floor. The moon
is high above the clouds, a single pearl on the black velvet sky.
Three crows were on the road this morning, signifying what?