“Bring me a big bowl of avocado
seed soup while we nail the seed
to the roof and that’ll fix it.”
You’ve got to fix it, dab
the glue in my middle, as the rim
turns among its rust. Like paraffin
fuel, like orangeade imprinted
upon a prayer. Like buff mottling
feeding on an ant. Neither wax
nor licorice, or the liver sagging
at its seam splotched with rum.
You’ve got to detach the dime
of your love as if its oven
was rising in the heated gasp.
Let me be your heroin,
filling the balloon of your heart
when the snow is the weight of now.
Fix me to the inside of a shoe
polish container, as a dying
weed, purple as oxblood.
A syrupy quiver as you undo
the notch in the perimeter’s lip:
years of abuse have turned this liver
into spider angiomas of orange urine.
Strike a match and burn the top off.
Put it in a rag and strain it, squeeze
the juice out of it into a glass.
Get some sugar and put it in there,
then some water, and there you’ll go.
The wryneck, a bird tied to wheels.
I buzzed around your window
I mean window late last night. You’d better keep your
better keep your better keep your windows pinned.