Sometimes when it’s raining, I dream 
of organization. Ha! I can hear Hoagland 
snort as if I’ve betrayed a principle 
he always knew I would, like I’m the King 
of Chaos bowing at last to the end-of-tangents
guillotine as if the heart too isn’t fire
and fire isn’t a waterfall, as if words
don’t come from the mouths of crushed stones 
and the match doesn’t say watch me consume 
the world and the wrist flicking it out 
isn’t also a song, as if enough negatives 
don’t plie up into a plus, as if a tree
didn’t tell us the gods disguise themselves 
not just to fuck us and leave us undestroyed
by their radiance but so they won’t recognize 
themselves just like we need to not recognize 
ourselves when what I mean is for a moment 
it might be nice to lay my hands immediately 
on Simic’s Book of Gods and Devils or Crimson’s 
Larks’ Tongues instead of rummaging through 
bookcases and drawers and that parked ark
of a sideboard although I always find 
a violet pastel pencil or letter from 
Dobby once I’ve stopped screaming how
this place is a mess to no one in particular
which is who I address autobiographically, 
so much better than what I intended like 
that drizzly evening I just wanted to avoid 
the dance and drink a beer under a big garden
umbrella and there she was, the love of my life
spark-lit.