That other self isn’t difficult.
It piano-vamps to conversation, is errand-happy,
and roams the lamb-colored earth.
At Christmas, it dotes on upholstery flowers.
Time-dull cars, W.C.’s, dubs—
I have faltered in my tries for more.
Who doesn’t halt at the fireworks?
Yes, it is eelkissing, love of bubble-wrap noise,
the hybrid musk of gardenia and sweat—
everyday is potency.
I lift up and bare my leg.
A bruise of jam and calico.
(Who said “jam” and “calico”?
I limp. I favor that leg harder.)
The kingdom of such fascinations is not empty.
Today, I crush
to my face yarrow, the body’s wicks, dachshunds.
And self’s not difficult.
It desires, just once, somewhere and flamely,
an act of unabashed love.