Babies and Ice Cream

Where babies come from
and how ice cream is made:

when you might not
see each other again,
and there’s a lake,
so you wish everyone
more lakes.

That’s where babies come from
and how ice cream is made.

Where kisses will lead
if you’re not careful:

when you stay up late
and stink at work the next day,
then often enough to lose
the trust of one you
trust still.

That’s where kisses will lead
if you’re not careful.

What to do
in case of emergency:

Hold the despair.
Your heart is in a dozen
rooms in a couple countries,
shouting your name.
Get all of you
to the doctor.

The room for emergencies
is called the Emergency Room.

That’s where kisses will lead
if you’re not careful.

That’s where babies come from
and how ice cream is made.




Wade In the Waters, Maybe

They’re headed to the place where
everything changes back into life—
he a husk of ashes and fiber,
she pulpy with spoiled desire.

They’re going together to lay on the fire
or pray to the tree or whatever
you do wherever this is.
They are lost and have no idea.

Wade in the waters, maybe.
Or let it be a surprise.

On the way they share a mattress
full of fleas and disease,
as if they need more of these.

His kiss is a cold coal,
his hands coughs on her.
She goes to the window to be seen.

The moon is almost like that,
the bay almost like that.
The glass. Someone looking.

Shy as the wind, they fear they’ll
never do anything.

They fear they have died
or never lived.
That they couldn’t tell the difference
if they tried.

So then her kiss is flopping fish.
And holy shit—she’s gushing tides!



Big Bang, Little Bang

The glass fell but didn’t break.
It was close, you could tell.

It’s like the ring of a bell–
and who hears it must die.

The waitress is too
hot for this menu.

I keep almost exploding
or something. Why?

The crowd’s streaming out.
Nobody tipped well.

Fish and chips
or shepherd’s pie?


She hides there in
her transparent skin,
that open glass robe
with her veins showing,
those eyes peeled lidless
like oranges—

lying, lying again
about everything she is.

The costumes of the air
will knock you flat.
The wind is jousting myths.

And it’s a sin to sour.

Just one more hour
folded on your reflection,
your back to the bathroom door,

and you’ll miss
everything you’d never guess:

the last bus to the shore,
say, where you could steep
the ocean with such flavor—

then that low, slow
star that would kiss
you, lover, best,
till the sky breathes the name
you’d yet to uncover,

didn’t know you expected—
on your lips, then all over.