Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night.
	ert-pksh-ert-pksh-ert-pksh: berlin with its pockets full of vomit
a narrow orderly line after a fashion
which is to shock, not enlighten
when God said kill the boy, please explain
Listen, o poet, to this marvel of day:
That a kiss may soften Medusa’s heart
only to concretize the words deferred
this is adaptation. this is a schedule of tides
this is the space we long for in the middle of the day.
In the long bright plain of the day, far from the night and the dangerous sea
you were watching the clock when it stopped
melting onto a leafless branch.
Listen to the stars dropping
and the frost, filling the rock with crystals
finds a voice and sings poet oh! glorious poet
your song of death, lovlier than the moon’s cold light
fracture’s unloved this emptied heart
Hear the moon and crackle of the stars as they light the night
the poet is hunkered down, scribbling, drowning words in blue ink, he writes
         so loud he cannot hear sounds
and remembers too late the prickle, the slow licking of flame
the sun’s tongue on the clouds
this silky soft and furry possum – all pink and grey and bushy-tailed -
         is in fact the living shape of heavy breathing late hour lust,
         the sort that jangles the phone and destroys your mind.
a mind destroyed from too much thinking;
         too many broken thoughts and discarded poems
listen … listen … the horsehair brush loaded with white pauses above the lit candle …
         whisper … whisper… the sound of your name just turns me on
Listen, o listener, to this wonder wrought by starlight.
         A poet spills his seed, and in the tree, the watching owl laughs contentedly.
         For it is enough, at least, for tonight.