In the House of the Wildflower

housewife disguise: radiant skin                     oh, my Sunflower!! meat up my                    

big hideous face, one among all                     glad sunstock; such childs, bull

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dogs, bullwinners, ring arounda                     buzzard. okay sun, mirror mine

undress blade, Sunday morning                    someday yellow lampshade and

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green hushed streets – my shins                    against my sin; flies on the walls

and flies in the bread-bag childs                     on floors inside the bloom bags

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baby brown boy in the soft sun                       we wave I wave he waves. love

take my stick to mud and carve                      into poured concrete hardening         

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a-round your heart. foto-bomb                        tic-tic-tic-a-tic GLOOM; swarm        

plastic slimbs of summer, 15 in                      ‘96, I am a wound with its head        

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forced back on. oh, sun-puddle                       drying up along side of Infinito         

red dragonfly scrambling in air                      (  these hands I put out to sea  )

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perfect thing up against another                     perfect thing. wife in the house,

disguise: battle print yoga pants                     middlefinger neatly chopped up        

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in her Twitter bio; from behind                       long, glossy hair sustains an age        

less body but in the body bones                     readily breaking into shards are         

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colliding, homogenizing. take a                       plane take it straight to hell love

reverse the comb and ungroom                     thyself. scoop up our barely be-

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loved mother and seatbelt onto                       stretcher, dump in white grave.

pageant of the dead pageant of                       the breadmakers, crooks of the

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Covid Communionist, bedbugs                       scrambling from the sun’s pitty

face. the loon, it tics all night in                      little god swamp, tic a’tic vroom

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baby blue boy in a big blues sky                      I see you in the lake, flowers in

your little bib-blue teeth calling                      her what she isn’t calling to her

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‘housed r a g o n!’ give her a crash                  glass of Chard and a ring of glass

give her a bread machine, a juice                   machine, an ice machine, a laugh

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cry or scream machine, why not                     give a dame a sex machine, Diane     

are you dead yet? is it you or is’t                    me––deseeding inside the mute

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(I am on your side I was always)                    (on your side; were you on mine)

(? silence, lover; silence mother)                   (hushhh) ambulance of dreams.