A millipede-thing the size of a Brahma bull is devouring
palm fronds that are longer than stretch limos.
He watches the multiplied sun along its segmented armor; then,

The sun goes, So long, so long, see you around.
And zone by zone by zone across America
the all-night coast-to-coast ghost café lights up.

My miracle cures left her of two minds. 
Pillowed in the bed, she would seem to be 
all acquiescence, even eagerness,

So bondage is a big part of it, after all—
that old art of rendering a lover submissive:
a tactic, a strategy. Denying somebody’s body

My thirty-third summer.
The dispassionate lake of adulthood widening.

Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, little galaxies, they flash out

Wrapped like a sprained ankle from head to toe,
                                                                                 locked in glass
In an inconceivable country.

He knows about the destruction caused by reaction:
emotional wounds, self-inflicted, a repeated torture
he brings about, trying to interrogate the self

He doesn’t want anyone to tell him
what color to paint his house nor
how to design it. He grows tired

Walking could hardly concern him.
At his house, though, this topic would be
spoken of as though it were political.