The third draft; we shall overcome.

HUSSAR

autumn
home
I return
to the revelation of
rumpled satin:
your red viscid thigh,
his chin dripping
against
your chest,
you dripping within him
like a spongy child.

my forehead throbs like a love-mad russian man;
my bootheels
should thump cannonlike
past the linoleum—
my murderous hands
white with wind—
the cylinder
a shriveled child
bulging at my ribs—

I should splinter
through the door
into the cold abysmal,
I should suck the sulfurous air
and the silence cleaving
to my brassy proclamation
(the trigger like a
chitinous body
clinging to my finger);
drip drip
cantering down my temple.

I should rattle my saber,
a love-mad russian man.
but I left
my pelisse
in the car.

I bend to the kitchen floor
and pluck up the dead:
your jeans, shoes, bra,
strewn like
propaganda leaflets
shouting
she isn’t yours.

First draft. Just getting it out there.

LOCK YOUR CAR at SUNDOWN

my eyes describe
the smudges of crows
in the pines
like the flecks of ash
on my knees.
I stab out another and light another,
the mutter of sulfur
in the red dusk.

my eyes describe
the curve of your spine—red
like the fender of a fancy car
parked on the grass
across the road.
and his eyes are like
the owner of many things,
hovering near and momentous
in the quiet sun
that crouches sweatily
at the edge of the pines
(in the sweet scent of rot).
I stab out another.

his hand describes
the red shadow of your
fender like an owner
of many things intending
to own that
other thing;
he looks at you
like a friend—
a thick rush of sulfur
to the eyes; I light another—

I thought I had the keys.

the last one
drops, tired and crow-bent.
I hope it burns
the earth to stubble.

PYOTR WITHOUT KATYA

the moon like
a ragged buzzsaw
has amputated your scent
from my eyelashes.

now
I am a lover
of sound:
the mewls
of coyotes
in the hollywood hills,
lunar waves breathing
against
continents of pearl.

Second draft.

HUSSAR

plump birches out
the window flush with cold,
clinging wet to white air.

autumn
home
I return
to the revelation of
rumpled satin:
your white thigh arachnoid
like viscid silk dripping
from the spinneret,
his chin dripping
against
your chest,
you dripping within him
like a spongy child.

my forehead throbs like a love-mad russian man;
my bootheels
should thump cannonlike
past the linoleum—
my hands
taut
murderous—
my chest:
crimson
starched
austere with wind—
the cylinder
a shriveled child
bulging at my ribs—

I should splinter
through the door
into the cold abysmal,
I should suck the sulfurous air
listening to the silence cleaving
to my brassy proclamation
(the trigger like a crushed,
chitinous body
clinging to my finger);
drip drip
racketing down my temple,
thinking of birches in the autumn rain.

you’ll sit
at the window,
his arm will
cup your hip.

I should rattle my saber,
a love-mad russian man.
but I left
my pelisse
in the car.

I bend to the kitchen floor
and pluck up the dead:
your jeans, shoes, red bra,
strewn like
propaganda leaflets
shouting
she isn’t yours.

The first new work in quite a while. Poetry is going slow these days, and I feel exceptionally rusty.


HUSSAR

plump birches out
the window flush with cold,
clinging wet to white air.

autumn
home
I return
to the revelation of
rumpled satin:
you dripping within him
like a spongy child.

I feel like a love-mad russian man;
my bootheels should
thump cannonlike past
the linoleum—the cylinder
would be a shriveled child
bulging at my ribs—

and in the cold abysmal
I should suck the sulfurous air
and listen to
drip drip
racketing down my temple
and think of birches in the autumn rain.
you’ll sit
at the window,
his arm will
cup your hip.
but I have hung
my pelisse on the coatrack
already.

I bend to the kitchen floor
and pluck up the dead:
your jeans, shoes, bra,
strewn like
propaganda leaflets
shouting
she isn’t yours.

The sun is an artillery shell
on my chest.

And what shall I do now? Whatever shall I do?

SERMONS

night is a congregation
of absence.

and you, shepherd
told me that old thing
about nothing from nothing.

what then shall I make of
the huffing
of this moon with ripe flanks—
a soft covetous eye
succulent with light.

you, lovely pastor but false,
have breached the
immaculate silence
I have
held for years.
our congregation
is mute as a black chain
of hollow freight cars,
gears squealing
with rich delighted voices.