Inside a large porcelain bowl
the eels move one against
the other, two black rainbows

Water pools the roof into mirrors
thin as any, the storm lilting

It’s true the shop man had slim fingers

but hers were slimmer, florid and ancient
in their urge to find places, curious places

Her body, first found dead, teeming with pills,
was quite alive actually.

Once it was out of sight, that sea that can spill
like ink across the map of any country.
We’d heard of it, were told that all roads lead

Like God, I get up early, walk out in the cool of the day
to see my handiwork. Oh, Nathaniel, thou hast not done well!
I’ll post a sign: Henry Thoreau, poet and pencil-maker,

The sand scorches
the tendons
of my perforated neck

Through the toxic atmosphere,
   beneath the neon light of a pistachio moon,
         I see my lover’s perfect, unkempt

Astounding! Or Awesome! Or Epochal!
Some such was the word of his election.
The rooftops and street corners blared it.

There they are, in the full sight of everyone, winking from
                their stones, “It’s me. Over here. Yeah. Bet you don’t
                believe your eyes. I got in!”