Canto 9
Jilted furies piss dappled
vegetable matter in tornadoes to the duke
of pasta.
Fermented and buried in ash,
smallest bubbles are lungfulls,
and will carry you from snow to folk story.
Corvine signs may revive you:
overripe feather offered
late in the garden .
And we have recomposed
recompense to recollect
and begin different.
It’s not the demon with your name and no digits
perched there, trunk of a scarecrow
forsaken by sentient melon.
Conch soup for your sadness.
Climb that steep grade.
Bring the balloon sun with you for hope.
Canto 10 again
Advance to the secretary of oracles
near the gaping hope, between sod and the last
drink. Your gunman holyone sprinkler spiller that mist.
Hewn girls are sticky with song
revolutions sheen gemspark baconfat
contortionist ivy halfassed dancing drapes
brave the pebbles and wade
what bank calls to you to leave
behind taste of wings in honey
plasticene gardens is the next stop
on the tour. Mineral breathing hot
as a whip might reanimate
The cemetery is littered with scimitars
and the finest flavors of sagacity, which
the dead have knitted into paper fans.
Anchor almond skinned
Sarah, quince
on her cheek. Is she not to be loved?
Canto 11
Your face of profound ripeness
nods heavy on its stem, seeks
to drop into beds of cool mint
and be cradled there. Against
the glittering whores, raccoon eyed
with metal incisors.
And make grand pronouncements
or memos plead to papa guardian
strength of snow drifts.
How convenient your nostrils’ flare,
make home to the latecomers and memory’s
finest sad sense.
Can’t taste a thing of that dish, chopped
penso rigorously massaged
paillard and perdito
mignon raw is restorative
tonic and stir three times
anon anon I will come
Canto 12
A moment of madness tended by enemies
the egg tooth crack
the poison casing recognition
scimitar and chivalry
a riverfall of glittering ruin
percolating earthquakes
tremble costing manacles
runoff chiming on mountain top
your secret pianissimo under moss
dabbling in your various rues
Might the buried quetzal
under the rotting lake
a maze whose center is pestilence
with false doors to night’s morsels
conch shell illuminating noise
of the beast biting himself
Canto 15
Bellybutton portal testament
you came from skin
not flames or fountains
like the plumed one or the guzzler
cupped hand of scherzo
tossed like salt over the shoulder
to guard the villages or poor Jack
might go bean hunting
consult with the sentient chicken
follow the ripest of cheeses
but eat no cherry and never look back
idols in his pockets fail to converse
how the gila monster pondering
who poisoned the well
but by sorrow
considers turning if home
were not so remote
back and so discovered were it was