I’m in diamonds. I do my best to provide.
But last night my wife acted out a strange scene.
God knows she was absolutely pie-eyed.
Dressed only in a bow, she grabbed my thing!
Solitaire sprawled on the rug with the dog—
goddamned loneliness, card game, my burnt knees,
the wallpaper samples in that catalog!
He says he’s good when he isn’t with me!
I buy this bird. It’s dead but soft. Nice. Soft.
My woman could make nothing of these others.
So many birds you’ve brought down from aloft.
Shut up! I don’t bargain with her lovers.
These women never let us get things done.
It’s such a basic thing to hang a man
on a cross. And he’s not even their son.
I suppose they must do what they can.
The women weary of calling their men
to lunch they’ve made in the golden hay fields.
Harvest is a working madness for them.
They eat, to the sound of scythes, poverty’s meal.
Hurry! The night finds the darkness. The sea
will empty before our lamps are lit!
The fish peck eyes that can no longer see.
Hungry, we work to milk our mother’s tit.
She is the only woman left who has her hair.
Alone, in that shattered window, she sits,
nourished by food she gets from god knows where,
while I lug starving corpses to the pits.
Come, Perfect Fool! I’ll tell your fortune,
while my girls cut your purse, pick your pocket.
I predict a fall in self-satisfaction.
You have a brain, but your actions mock it.
The sockets in the skull have been worn to
pinholes. The jaw is a flower of flakes
in a desert stretched from red hills to blue
lakes, blooming for a dead man’s dead wife’s sake.
See? Here she is. No man held her life.
Barbed wire and bullets were to no avail.
How swift a bird to fly above the knife.
Her body is still warm. Her eyes are pale.
Trees are a curse on the moon, which is far
and updateless, while they stand here and grow.
My eyes stir a whirlpool of dim stars;
Diving for death, I see her and follow.