Where the Tympanuchus Roam
Galen, I’m going down to the well
to collect the bile in buckets, to exact
the shape of spleens, supple as desserts,
to interrogate modern medicine
as surgeons dash across the teletype,
nuzzle the cold salt, attempt to mend
trees, and void popular lacerations.
Among the blood instruments,
so well-arranged against the moss,
patients wear the thievery of apostropherubber,
feathers. Simply imagine the
phyllotaxy, all extrinsic and Medieval,
decisive as calcium peppermint. You
create this lust for fluids, and now lungs
as practical wounds or kidneys as deaf
as broth. Yet in attachment blossoms
fall, and in aversion weeds spread.
This connective tissue as divine
as wishbone to universe skin.
It arrives: here in bleach pleats,
warm bliss with stethoscope precision.
Our Pubic Century
Poppy stars, come home to me,
you are my little test prawns!
and bring the litmus of being. The bias of celestial skin.
Spread all of your fears onto this Dictaphone.
Be the cough syrup, a submarine, _____ and seamless.
We demand pubis. Perhaps some custard as well.
Below the orchard is a blue
we’ve been breathing in for centuries.
It is already November.
Come for a feast and practice with me.
Perform an acceptable freshwater preservation technique.
Carve galaxies from the universal yam.
I’ll be the dapper snapper.
and you’ll scream, little prawn.
You’re a star.
