Baby, baby, baby
aromatic and secret, the mole under your right arm
that sticks out like a mollusk,
a pencil drawing of a mollusk.
Baby, baby, baby
the boxcar in the copse of birch off highway 91
disappeared and I drive my car into a different frozen pond
every night: it's the only place I can’t touch me.
Baby, baby, baby
I am writing about you, and
there are ghosts and they make me shake
taste sour and fried, spongy like webs.
Baby, baby, baby
there are snakes in the geraniums
hair and soap in the sink drains
spiders in the lamb feast I fed to bad swans.
I am making sauce
I am pouring it on the stack of books
you lent me, you hate me, you fucked me
like a snake in a bag eating itself:
Amulets of jade cascade…
Into fire went the spade
out it came filled with jade
cooling, it laments and fades
don’t call me anymore
and read me poems
it’s giving me cancer
and I hate slant rhymes.
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