HOW I BECAME SAGACIOUS

The day the window grew till it no longer fit the house

was the night I decided to leave.

I carried in my snake mouth a boxful

of carnal autobiographies.

I went in search of a face without theory.

The window went on to sing a throb of deer

melody. The shape, the day of my belly sobbed

with the outline of a deer.

The clouds were a mouth-shaped poison,

& ready. I saw violence in anything

with a face. I wished for a place big enough for grief,

& all I got was more grief, plus People magazine.

There were some inside things I was going to make

outside things, just for one person in a godless

living room, full of passé plants. Now what?

So blah & bewildered, my hands

have turned out to be no bee,

all bumble, unable to tell the difference

between the floor & the ground. They feel dirt,

but it feels like something they made.