Well, for one thing, it’s habitual—
translating a redhead of rooster comb
into a fire thing “Thing” is
inexact and wobbly, just as I am
inexact and wobbly If anybody notices
this, I will deny knowing anything about it
In fact, this wasn’t even written by me
It was dictated to me over the ocean waves
of space-time by Guillaume Apollinaire,
who is, even now, doing his finest work
as a beekeeper slash forestry historian slash
critical theorist slash avant-garde war veteran
His love is overwhelmingly hungover
in the distance, the bald pink mountain
like a mist-sheer curtain,
so he still drinks excessively
the mathematics of stars
He makes the sweetest honey
He listens to Fugazi
He calls his robot servants Coleridge
And wherever the grizzly bears paint pictures
you can bet he’s there, too, painting pictures,
trapping all the dust that he can in his hands—
his hands, which are numinous, if not numerous
“This is your birthday pony,” he sings
in chorus It is perfect
and so, too, are you Everything is,
as when it’s seen through a poem Forget
forget forget, don’t forget “I know
nothing anymore and I can only love”
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