...

Deluca

Could you say that when I fell
into your arms of ice after Armageddon,
that was normal. And us drawing blood
like hot rope from the bodies
sweating in the twilit grass—was that normal too.
By God, I am fed, DeLuca, but how am I supposed to relax.
The moon is on me, it's like a bad hand.
From the dim-low bushes I watch your back,
Your hands
how they glow
as you overturn rucksacks.

And in that first night for the bright eyed
lunatic I see
Iridescent spiders
mechanical over bars of dreams and
blueprints for colossal webs,
the ants
in the treasure, the foot
in the grave, the grave
in the burning lamp, the white
in the bones, the bones
building
the skeletons, the skeletons
holding up the land,
the water
snakes digesting
the roaring star in all of nature.

Walking is flying
A cool wind
Throws grey scarves of gunpowder
perfume over the long
yellow hairs of ancient trees.
Tall as bombshells, they cover me,
And approaching daylight films me in claustrophobic foams.
I used to be a banker, in yesteryear’s home.
Here, chocolate horses
suck on cherries my future sailor might’ve grown
And the horsies sputter translucent globes
Of warm spit upon the corn.

What now
That I roll the countryside deader than even the dead
Aimless & all except for your aim,
Now that my throat opens like a clam
to hot junctures & Jell-O wives
scenting the fields,
Hunger contracts on its own accord,
And my tongue is the tail which wags,
And my vision is a pearl and an opera,
And you are the undertaker center stage
wild and silent, sure,
but with a dufflebag of smokey laughter.
I've seen you
rip trees from function
and me
from the living tide.



*

But a house derelict in the foothills we find,
Climbing with ivy so green
it’s easy to hide, we unleaf the drawers,
I’ll take what’s now mine,
while you, DeLuca, cover the windows, and cover them tight.
Till dinner time.
Till dinner time.

Outside, wild turkeys cry.
Would’ve wanted them, some other time.

What war, exactly, was supposed to be through?
Spiders and switchblades and aeroplanes and dew.
Now the hunger in my wood-toy soul
Just wants penny blood and mysterious you.
Up in the attic, I dress and re-dress, fine linens,
blue,
Catch a look in the human’s mirror,
And DeLuca,
I’m new.

Blood-eyed and pale with entry.

*

I had a lot of thoughts, and felt all day my veins
surged the colour of parliament.

Haven’t written a word to no part of you in centuries.
And a black bird has been following me,
Is that one of yours?