By Anne Boyer

Sing yourself from the choirs
Of the unsung. Who can sing

Of you? Gigantic as an apple seed,
the first lullaby burning on the bush.

Sic your dogs on my dreams.
They are not so bad

baring each enamel, darling,
in the context of your infinitesimal

eye-socket or your arms like February
(oh fronds of lash-small fingers!).

It is a pleasure to be effaced by you,
puny cupid, piercing my overgrown heart

I'll be fat as a birthday balloon for you
or an inverse Penelope spinning myself into your cocoon.

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