Don’t look at me
splintering these daffodils,
when I’m at my worst
defoliating their atoms:
I’m one of the hideously weak sort,
a silhouette that roosts
on a streetlamp and
murmurs a low fire.

Of course I sometimes blame it
on the circumstances
of my unholy birth,
hanging there, a stranger
torn by solitary comets:
How could I see beyond
that somber spark?

I spoke words on a banjo
swooning in mint sauce,
herd dulcimer squalls
in my hot suite.
If I could sing like poultry
with flaming green lips
wag my head through perfume,
I would be pleased
as a tipster nomad
in his bath. Alone and proud,

proud cloud poised above my wrist
and cruel chords remembering…
And because of this
and so much more, I am allowed
to scratch my way to the surface again:
A fabulous homing instinct remains,
and wounds.