Hello, good morning. Hello, meadowsweet
that pinkly lines the river. Hello, book
with deckled pages. Hello, lucky day
from picking up a penny. Lo, I greet
milord the sunshine. Hi, unfocused look
of upthrust glacial mountainhead, display

of winter storefront dazzlement. Hello,
sundogs loping at the edge of sight,
goosedown on a wet and chilly night.
Hi, summer afternoon. Good morning, snow
that drifts us in so we don’t have to go
to school today. Hello there, startled flight
of doves with whistling wings. Hi, time to write.
Hi, ringing downstroke of a cello bow.

I am my own Nude. -Anne Carson

Voluptuosity? Go down.
Cascades, cataracts: fat in a bra,
globes of honey tickled into
some palm, but only Anubis,

lover and coroner, sees the yellow drupes
of cells stacked inside, parts the lips
of the Y-incision most tenderly.
The living see only the juicy

dive, meetly and sweetly, between
strong marked-up thighs. What moving
finger writ these runes? White calves
bellow at night. Painted hide,

and the brown hands of a wicked, wicked witch
on a strapping white ass. All poses are coy.

I got a High John the Conqueroo
trading card in my pack of ten
from the convenience store.

I got root access through you,
root doctor, root guru,
ghost in the UNIX shell.

Penguins taught you and you
taught me. See? How a mojo hand
trails off in rootlets, a taproot

where saxophones divide,
a girl named Truffles brushes the drums
with hairy ginseng from the holler:

you knew these blues, and you taught me well,
chords of the Buddhas unborn.

               The rumbling stomach
          of the sky releases
Summer’s symphony. Our
          tennis shoes still resting
               by the door and our toes
          free-dance across the mud
that squishes in between.
          Our swirls leave signatures
               deep inside the earth and
          stains bleed through our jeans.
As we spin, the cruel
          words and sibling pains
               of the day drizzle down
          and puddle away from
the thunder that we make.

Satin remnant of a howling storm
Fragmented from its original form
Stripped of protection, broken, tossed
And tumbled, sea-soaked, missing, lost
Like a sailor on unfamiliar seas
Drifting ashore on a delicate breeze
To a destination unknown
Into a shell-strewn tideline sewn
Tangled with seaweed and beachglass and sand
Landing as new wood, refined, yet unplanned
Not belonging, but soon enough
A removed diamond from the rough

She says:
I don’t feel right. I’m imploding
or exploding. I’m not sure
which.

He said:
The leaves are falling off the trees,
browned to the color of the cancer
rust edging up the fenders of my car.
Usually just the leaves die, but
I think the trees are dying too.

She says:
My head is swollen. Pregnant
with ideas and failure. Full of mourning
and morning sickness. My feet so fat
I can only wrestle in my sheets
and lay with open mouth counting peaks
in stucco ceilings.

He says:
I’m hungry for change.

She said:
It’s time for me to go.

What would you think of me
if I set a table for iced tea out in a park
with two chairs; for you, for me while air
still gold, the cloth checked, gone Deco?

You’d look swell in such a place, I swear
you would. Not far from a lake, it’d all look
just out of this world, like some pearl-strung
still frame from a faraway screen, all blithe

and fair. Small lights, I’d have them there
too, bugs that each hold a piece of moon
to build as gold fades to a June night blue.
What would you think of such a rose? Of “I may

be wrong, but I think you’re wonderful.” And as I
mean it, I’d spill my drink, honest I would. Please say
at least, you’d smile, at me, at petaled songs, the beat
of thumbs to thorns, and of love, old, gone Deco.

And it steps as it steps,
through the high grass fields.
And it weeps while it walks,
like it always will.
When it laughs,
when it cries,
it’s explosive.
And the burden,
gets a bit more implosive.

The stroll of it’s step,
says it’s drunk.
And the shine in it’s eye,
says it’s high.
The whisper in it’s words,
says it’s dreaming.
And the curve of it’s lips,
right at the tips,
says it’s scheming.

The way it goes on,
it’s delirious.
It’s drum is a beat,
walked on by feet,
that won’t do to be naught,
but mysterious.
The taste on it’s tongue,
says it’s displeased.
The fire of it’s wants,
says it won’t be appeased.

The steps of it‘s dance,
are contagious.
The sweep of it’s words,
advantageous.
As it walks through the high grass,
in a field never tilled.
And it rambles like a madman,
for it always will.
The madness in it’s mind,
says it’s seeing.
The high grass before,
when it was something more.
And the memory,
makes sure it keeps breathing.