last night’s blood orange
a jubilation wound up
in jest a dreamer
of such and such habit
who must from
the auburn grave
come winding into
buttercups of the past
the canyon eagles fly
to his house where a
pulsating party gives birth
he hustles me more divinely
and now has gone back to the trees
I owe confession
these lemons once
and a saint lounging in a comf-
oranges of shaken nights
get longer as the sun dawdles
flaming red beside a garbage—
flare of the frozen apples
whether northerly the music
of weeds rising
no it is the milk of the stars
it is water under a bridge
where it runs
I have lived more
than he called me
have given unto phones
around the neck
a blushy thrust divinely consum-
fortuna-
stranger than our mothers
the summer after I knew I was just
using the memory of your blood
