One final fall of sun slips past the ridge
behind my shoulder, coats the upper limbs 

A fallow field in January, crisping
under our boots; the red barn, slanting roof

that slumps and decays; the seed-stitching

When we showed up for the reading drunk, John,
We were in celestial form, unmixed
And brimming. Having just decoded

On the morning that lasts forever
the neighbors are playing a tape of Tibetan
monks again, somewhere between groaning

Far above the malleable half-rib floater,
a sudden unexpected pain

skitters where the skin curve of the fifth rib

I am unable to say from what place, from which dream,
anything comes.

                If you were to commit a crime . . .

Within oral slum,
Mr. Illusion-Thaw
wilts humor-nail.

The movie starts with a man taking pictures of himself, like all movies do,
like a woman peeling onions, one layer, one translucent film at a time,
blurring her eyes with teats, Sorrow does this. So does mace. So do peppers—

You think me evil? I think so of you.
Before you captured me I was the queen
of Goths, and there I was no lady, but

For years, I'd heard how much
my mother missed mangoes.
Now I miss mangoes.