Four Poems

All Day I Dream about Sex

Arrive, and pencil out a list
of things been been, and things been lost.

Then pencil out the pencil-marks,
and shade the marks the pencil makes.

So. Wipe the windows, latch the lock,
and loop along the mullet-lake.

Or, hang the shirts, unwrap the soap
and scour the skillets. Salt the soup.

Collect the catkins, fresh in bud.
Then tire, and tread at night to bed

in total nightness. Fuse the fuse.
Wake up with the sun on your face.

First, buckle on your borrowed shoes
and moon about those morning-shows

with handsome hogs and pissy plots.
And come away, and pick the plates
...