Exhibition of Desire

Would you like a slice of pcar or a slice

of amethyst? It tastes of nightmare and we,

mice in silk kimonos, rustling across

a fragile bridge, Nearly identical, sick

of the vast, Midwestern sky, quiet as dry

starfsh. Eyed, dipped in a basin, a beautiful

bundle of nerves. I remember

a harvest behind the curtain, that white

swollenness in the Spring Room: a throat

frosted to the bone, and then

the tremor of gelatin beneath the skin--

grass in the mouth, green breath in winter.

Then, the endless curiosity

of earth: a muddy river in the distance

saturated me as the soul lingers in the body

to feel its sinews unravel, raw--

my little island at war, A brazier warms

a windowful of eyes, There are no fowers like us,

patient or numbed, There is no hunger

like ours, seducers of scattered bcauty,

Emptied of blazing organs, we flew lightly,

then pulled, sunk beneath, by wanting.