Things dreamed and remembered
Remain above the water line a
Short time only, and sink, as soon
As they are able. The one I love longs
For the song of the loons of Little
Marais. A tissue of lies splits slowly,
Fiber by individual fiber, raped
By an obscene, inquisitive tongue,
Glistening in its splendiferous caul
Of spit, turning its tip this way
And that like the claymation
Probiscus of Rodan. Or Magog
Or McGoo; whatever; firebird hatchlings
Of atomic shit. Old college cafeteria
Trick. The egg lay on the seafloor,
Rocking, tipped this way and that
By interlocking currents that
Haunted me for a thousand gen-
Erations. Well, for a long time,
Anyway. At least a week or
Two. Then birdbeak tapped semaphore
On the inwardness of it, like
This: dah dit-dit dah, dit-dit dah-dit-dit dah . . .
Iambs. Let's say so, anyway. Pros-
Ody ain't my beat. The music's
In me, that's all I no. Why I love
My wife is, when she cries
Out in the dark and tosses me those
Hot potato dreams, I forget them
For her. Wolves in the focs'l,
Baying at the, well, you know, where
The moon's fair face swims politely
Under a wooden pail, waiting for a smash
(Everything and everyone is waiting like
That), adrift on the breast of Gitcheegoo-
Mee, puzzled by the stars.