I have saved this for you--
each morning I heap new--
treasure on its peak--
each night an astral body sheds--
its ill; our sun.
the center is rot--
slow stew churns--
my treasure I heap still--I stole--
a star stretching arm from hip.
Now the earth's ill
smells of your night sweats.
And look here, there is still a top middle and--
underneath--clay awaiting a face, sand--
strung seaside in midtide--
their moats drowning their doors.
Your fingers plow--
offer a parapet to mine--
mine, cradle verge--whole
your neck, finger steps from lobe, at the crest
the descent to sinew and shoulder.
Don't turn your head.
I watched your five years pluck dancing, while invisible mansion
sprawled, surviving summer's hives
when daughter you wore my eyes for a split,
outlaw-loose-with-treasure, second. surrounding:
wet lipped fog, an installation in our small town; the barren beige;
your sticky youth,
joining our hands--famine impressing
feast. paid our ransom to raven working,
winter crows addressing their lunch. our wonder
inches deep--submerged in cut, sullen hay--
you tickled the last green clover--a boy trapped in
rapunzel's watchtower, you said.
you, eschewing his hard luck with your roadside
know-how--you and your knack to put good
on its heels.
then we stood on a bridge, three
quarters past your lunch due,