According to Scholars, Everything
—so long these days: the nineteenth century,
the twentieth century, the novel,
and now the night: Prince of flowers: boat-less
oars at the edge of a cold beach: sometimes,
we are asked to prove who we are: stranger
in the house of strangers: here, I remember
the white bee making a black zero above
our heads, the hairs of a gray cat pulled
from the back of our throats, placed on a dish
that would bear nothing more remarkable
than this: refuse: fat moon: peach pit: lamp light
spilling its affliction over our feet:
your hand and now your mouth starting a gash
below my nipple, a gash I do not wish closed.
Found In Volume 42, No. 05
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