July was always the month for me. I cling
to July as if there are no doubts about
July. I feel human enough and animal enough
in July. I identify with those harvests flying
You're the one who saw us as two white starlings
in that weaving with two white birds in it
we brought back from Crete and hung
behind our bed. In your myth of white starlings
I’m watching the Anthony Perkins of Psycho.
My 1968 draft board.
I like the tide when it stays out, the sea has taken enough, I said.
Please explain, he said.
But it’s the gods of hate I’d like to figure out.
The battery cable on the rectum—on the nipple—
the cock head, the eye lid, the usual. They could
give it a little—but they give it a lot. I’d like to say,
It all came down to a crane I saw
flow into blurring dusk and shallow water.
It didn't notice me stopped there a couple of
row-boat lengths away, chewing a Tuscany loaf,
Fulfillment is uncomfortable, fulfillment is uncontrollable.
What is it that Dylan Thomas told of a "weather's wind…"
"that through the green fuse drives the flower" drove
his green age-
It was ninety degrees.
On and off someone coughed miserably in the next apartment.
We went through the whole bottle of wine, we were fed up
with our jobs and the summer. You pulled my hand
I believe in mysteries that live
on their own fire― the seeds and branches
of twilight, the blood alert within the mysteries
opening drenched layers of woman's skin.
To walk down a street in that neighborhood
and not get hassled you had to look like
you could deal with abuse—you had to
be able to look into the lowered