Monday, July 28, 2008


With my hands I made a little man-poet.
He hurt me. Three feet high, he sighed like ages.

How was it I fashioned someone old from clay?
I remembered him as if by fingering. An étude.

I indicated him from silt and felt his buddha
belljar swell in hands all gloved with him.

Because he was my poet he was naked. Because
he was muse I was not his. Poets are for me a how-to—

praxis. Together we were family love of god
and man, and I the better poet. I made another.

The first had not been what I had in mind—- he
was all big love but nothing genius. So I

moved on, leaving squat one after one to slap
clayed hands onto clay cock. The last I gave

a vulva. She produced less than others, sometimes
more—she had an ebb to her, and treaded on her

selves not in path- or rut- or lovemaking per
say, but in drunk, perhaps, rapturous or

endemic waltzing. Worried, I anyway settled
on her as vessel—then sent an angel. This is

how it’s done, how I have done it all world
long, but she cared less. And more. The words

she put out like lights were not my own.
My ladypoet, she abandoned me for our child--

Pome, she called him, and meant apple--her tiny
vengeful gala. We have never met.

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