Specific Gravity

with a knife like that you’re
often guaranteed success
dangling from a mirror 
with a foot of broken glass
whose was the voice that 
begged us to undress
with the whole world watching
that in a sweating handful of 
candy-apple hips and toothpick arms 
and melancholy breasts like hardened 
pitchers of clay, thumbed our eyes 
to the heavens and made them 
explode the skies with diamonds?

the fish was the oil on the skin and
the light in the streets was a tolling bell, 
a ghost fire, the gong of a martyred clock 
that extinguished the electric parades of night
and all the wild creatures were
taking great care not to feel
sorry for themselves as they scattered 
like tired ants across a molehill of electric buses 
and fine cottontail clothespin airplanes 
that cinched the necks of their 
restless collars 
while they slept

can you imagine it? all the roving 
characters of time and space 
shrunken in proportion to their own 
as if someone had taken the top hat 
off of heaven and flung our most inconceivable 
	wishes at a parachute in the 
crosshairs of a flying sun

(if more than half of our dreams were by night 
we’d never need the free-floating images 
of the stars we wish on)

our eyes were heavenly landmines
that burst with glitter and 
junk paper wrappers
in a separate silken garden
where the eternal reward for 
passion is a glove around the waist
a patch of warmth in the middle of a 
bedsheet and a glance
that reminds us of our own 
solitary lovingness


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