In a treasure chest lined and
stuffed with newspapers and bras
and panties as white as Mary’s face,
empty soupbowls crack.
I am creamy. Rattling
the masonry of Dante I cry:
Present a dream. I’ve already crossed
my arms like a kiss in the backseat of a car.
Outside love, my murder and I
wind the sun around old New Haven
where we’ve already wheeled a few beasts
into shaky bedrooms and out
to the beginnings of bronze horizons.
Rain falls, fills us with action
figures, exploring us
for subterranean caves and pure blue
water, where the fetal position is thinking
in disingenuous grammar
about nothing in particular. Someday,
my dear readers, yet half-
moving in god-spit, I will swallow
the beads the beasts have worn.
I will swallow their shadows and crud
one more time.
