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have snatched it

      from anyone; when you gave it to us,

      no, mama?

      [CE]

XXV

      Chess bishops upthrust to stick²⁷

      to lute, down deep, to napes,

      to upright numerators’ undersides.

      Bishops and burs from lupine piles.

      As the lee of each unraveled

      carabel snorts, without amerecanizing,²⁸

      blighting ploughtails in spasm slacken,

      with the scanty pulse improperly prone

      to blowing its nose on the back of its wrist.

      And the sharpest sopranancy

      gets tonsured, ensnared, and at length

      imnazaled²⁹ near icicles

      of infinite pity.

      Biggity haunches huff hard

      to bear, pendent on musty breast plates

      standards with their seven colors

      under zero, from guano islands

      to guano islands.

      Hence the honey harvests in the wide open of bad

      faith.

      Hence the time of the rounds. Hence the man of the back

      roads onward to future planes,

      when innanimous gryphion only reports

      blundered mute-due crusades.³⁰

      So then bishops come even to stick

      to trapdoors and to rough drafts.

      [JM]

XXVIII

      I’ve had lunch alone now, and without any

      mother, or may I have, or help yourself, or water,

      or father who, over the eloquent offertory

      of ears of corn, asks for his postponed

      image, between the greater clasps of sound.

      How could I have had lunch. How served myself

      these things from such distant plates,

      when my own home will have broken up,

      when not even mother appears at my lips.

      How could I have had a nothing lunch.

      At the table of a good friend I’ve had lunch

      with his father just arrived from the world,

      with his white-haired aunts who speak

      in dapple-gray tinkle of porcelain,

      mumbling through all their widow alveoli;

      and with generous place settings of lively tootlings,

      because they’re in their own home. What a snap!

      And the knives on this table

      have hurt me all over my palate.

      Viandry³¹ at such tables, where one tastes

      someone else’s love instead of one’s own,

      turns into earth the mouthful not offered by

      MOTHER,

      makes the hard degllusion³² a blow; the dessert,

      bile; the coffee, funereal oil.

      Now when my own home has broken up,

      and the maternal help yourself does not leave the

      tomb,

      the kitchen in darkness, the misery of love.

      [CE]

XXX

      Burn of the second

      in all of yearning’s tender carnage,

      platter of vigrant³³ chilies,

      at two in the immoral afternoon.

      Warrant of edges edge to edge.

      Heady truth tapped alive, upon hooking up

      our sexual antenna

      to what we’re being unawares.

      Dishwater of maximum ablution.

      Voyaging crocks

      that collide and spatter from fresh unanimous

      shadow, the color, fraction, enduring life,

      the eternal enduring life.

      Don’t fret. Such is Death.

      The sex blood of the Beloved, who all sweetnessed-up³⁴

      bemoans such lugging around so much

      for such a ridiculous reason.

      And the circuit

      between our poor day and the big night,

      at two in the immoral afternoon.

      [JM]

XXXI

      Hope between cotton bawls.³⁵

      Uniform husky arris

      of magnificent spore woven threats

      and with porter buttons inborn.

      Are six rubbed out by sun?

      Nativity. Shut up, fear.

      Christian I hope, ever hope

      kneeling down upon the circular stone

      that on this chance’s hundred corners

      is so vague where I appear.

      And God overwhelmed subdues

      our pulse, silent, grave,

      and as father to his babe

      barely,

      but barely, half-opens up bloody cotton balls

      and takes hold of hope between his fingers.

      Lord, it’s I who want it …

      And that’s enough!

      [JM]

XXXVI

      We struggle to thread ourselves through a needle’s eye,

      face to face, hell-bent on winning.³⁶

      The fourth angle of the circle ammoniafies³⁷ almost.

      Female is continued the male, on the basis

      of probable breasts, and precisely

      on the basis of how much does not flower.

      Are you that way, Venus de Milo?

      You hardly act crippled, pullulating

      enwombed in the plenary arms

      of existence,

      of this existence that neverthelessez³⁸

      perpetual imperfection.

      Venus de Milo, whose cut-off, increate

      arm swings round and tries to elbow

      across greening stuttering pebbles,

      ortive nautili, recently crawling

      evens, immortal on the eves of.

      Lassoer of imminences, lassoer

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