Patter to Mend

I measure time by how a body sways.
            —Roethke

Through thorns, & a thick & wicked buzzing
   I sing nectar, a stumble

Born of itself & the mothballs in flames
   & of course I’ll show you the dirt-nailed

Fingers
   I sing blossom, brother, & all of my rats are pillow biters

Tails nailed to the walls & soup
   Smell the burning hammers

They broken-worm like severed hands in a box of sea
   For example: love me

Albinoed
   For example: talk down that sky unbettered

So, in this sparking light, what nervous tic isn’t possible?
   What is it then, carved north

To south down my chest?
   Don’t be afraid    Take a look inside—

The contractions bulldoze & gleam
   Humming is no different

But such is a lazy god
   Let us call it: real-live-bleeding

&sitting-in-a-chair-with-duct-taped-eyes
   Why do we always want more & more?

All that angel dust speckling the fruit