Dogs bark, say the Russians,
But wind blows it away.

Rose petal, rose mouth, rose, open to humming
beaks and hairy bees, swinging warm
in sun, rose wet with inner dew,

Nothing in all the world is quite so lonely as a lover who wants to love but loses his beloved in a jungle the two of them helped one another create, plant by tree by vine.

Everyone has advice, lots of suggestions,
Some bring him plastic bowls, tin cans,
Old buckets; someone with half a degree

Some parents shy away from the body,
but we hush up about the cross—
rereading our daughter the story about Jesus

Roxy lifts her furrowed face and opens
her mouth for another hunk of banana muffin.
Her eyes are matted shut; her white hair wild as Isaiah’s.

I should have worn gloves to the Inauguration Ball, where I
was criticized for my attire—my hair shirt and sandals, helmet
and scabbard.

These are the four directions of the fence: up, down, right,
wrong, black, white, male, female. Nevertheless, at night the
fence points only toward the future, time’s true north.

If my enticement is any more monstrous today
than yesterday, if it builds any more power
into its sides, if its red-gold plush