Beauty Malaise & Cloudstain
I have a fantasy about erupting into space
on the heel of a glacier, like meltwater glass
strapless like a divorcee, like a white pony lying
down in the middle of an argument. I go off like
the debutante's gun in the dream where I come
to worship her wounds. Look, rocky debris
we get bigger as we leave. Dropped into infinity
coils, something in me breaks down: touched
so lightly it could be anything. It could be the
birth of bluegrass, the better part of a bottom
lip, ribs, or rafters. Maybe I am too heavy to
do the lifts but I am a lamb survivor in a cutty
pastoral. If we include the ocean floor then roll
tape. I tried to baptize AJ in a milky toddy
and I almost drowned him. I said focus
on the growing rabbit. I said focus on
Ginger Rogers: she has killer legs like a
ghoul. I did it well and I missed it. I said shelter
shelter shelter. I shared everything with the itch.
Tremolo, fluttering eyelid. I take a taxi to the shoe
shiners. That's the whole joke. That's the so-called
gulping, the quasi-text. As I fly upward, I make bubble
curtains. I sing for the camera come as you are
making the darling thing grow. I learn upon leaving
that the zoom lens is refrigerated, that the earth wants
us to cool quickly and curl into pearly inner worlds. I do
it well and I get the bends. I hem the atmosphere's skirt
for a party. I eat the foam-filled air. If we include
the ocean floor, then I land. The tides offer rolling
admission and all of the salty objects are on loan.