Given said variance, rather my side of the orchard,
is it merely about the hookup where I’m legislating
other pods in daisies, an enormous yellow grove
between the gurney and the exhilaration of Formica
in her eyes? One touch of my hand, the gavel lands,
and she’s constellated. I wandered through a feverish
belief in teeth biting grass, in half-awake moans.
Across the city of night, breasts, waists, throats pure
as punctuated skies. I took Mr. Blue to cafés, spoke grief
to all the distingué faces, also too, in the fly business.