this morning
before I whittled my face and rewrote my autobiography
sirens were singing
and their wordless cries kept lids
on my desert eyes and plugs
in my feminine ears
sibillant hymns were cracking window panes
singing-- choruses from chrysalis,
seraphim, and syphilis
here's the truth
i will be your saccharine
this cottonwood summer is ours
let me tell you a story about a doomed ship named regret
quietly
because everbody knows everybody in the dark
we're bumping elbows
trying to watch some fireworks
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