Rapunzel had her hair. All she had
was a phone she couldn’t dial out on
and a second set of sheets—twin-sized

The whole hollow globe of orange, balanced
where ashes usually fall, in the crystal
curve of the ashtray, brightened the table.

If you could only hear the chatter,
you would know how I was misled
earlier this morning when I woke

What we have         before us, obviously,
is the intestine.         So why, you may wonder,
did I call you         to the operating room

But, my dear lord, now that it’s in your hand,
What are you going to do with it? The roots
Of a windblown seed had groped sideways

When given a place to wait, it fills that place
By taking the shape of what contains it.
Its upper surface poised and level.

On summer days at the swampy edge of the river
    He would bundle his shirt and shoes, his pantaloons
         And drawers on the dry bank

I was walking with the backward
river, sluggish water dialects
spell out spilled lakefront’s

Midsummer with other men’s lovers, fumbles
on a living room couch, significance asleep
upstairs: I come through the door, I come

If they, more petite
   than the mice whose flittings
         have pillaged their robes’ sparkled trim,