52

all of it is home
but in the patio
of its disguise
i weep
and curse the owrld
mispelling

we made this
and the chaste tree
of its pussy willow
a corner

the little street
where we made love

i want to give nothing up
and find this old home
much more like a lover
i cannot leave

and because i can do little
of what i want
i hate the world
but do not want to

in this home
i killed the world
buried it in itself
and found the insides
of all things

not merely drama
but paint
under the fingernails

i fear
all of this is ruined
disturbed

and the world
made Gesualdos
one after another
thoughtlessly

and the sticky pain
of it all
is never comforting

if only
the wagon
i find a dreary baby
inside a tadpole's
soul

and think
it does not stink
when strangers
envelop
the moss i have laid
with dumb hands

drowned
in witches
skin

nobody understands
the road

i dream
in lechers
and money
and wrecks

but the best
is with a horse
bringing kittens
in saddlebags
to the sleepy
valley
firemen-

us.

(~O live Ghiselin!)