the fireworks boom beyond my shutters.
i'm in the list business;
i'm an assassin,
skewering boxes with x's
and checks, the words to
their right drifting away,
disembodied.
we are all dying, starting with the moment of our birth. i could hold anyone's hand and earn another x.
my demons are a donkey's bray, shelves of books i've read and reread, and beelzebub.
someone tore out the walls of the creek with a crane and locked the doors of the village church. but the art factory's assembly lines continue to roll, cranking out crates of fired clay and peacocks dressed in buttons and glass.
if i wore a mirror around my neck, would you see that you dwell in my heart?
goodbye, 2010, you labyrinth. long live the compass that truly points north.
[i have rubbed shoulders with a thousand naked germans]
who suckled loneliness? who pitied the poor naked wailing thing and built it a cradle, knowing or not knowing its birth-name? my breasts keep the creature alive, my breasts, the atlantic, and income tax.
the true question is, who birthed it? god, far away? the serpent in the backyard? the woman in my chest? the first dutch mayor of new york and whoever else built these streets so long.
it's the little boys who are the worst, their chests like wooden spoons or raven wings, all knobbly and brittle, hiding their eyes while you promise to come back for summer and pretend to hunt for your suddenly elusive passport.
when the new year first cried, we were with the sugar plum fairy. she was new with a plumed tail and no candy. i am still my demons' wetnurse.
this plane is landing, again and again.
