When I said my heart was silky,
I meant it was silly. I mean, I meant
it likes to get its hair done whenever
possible. Oh my darling, my heart
is at heart a southern person & even
a little bit of a vixen—a long schlep
for you I know up to the house, but
real swig once you get here & the best
of whatever other foxtrot such that
when the lousy cosmos throws all this
nine-to-five big-fat rigmarole at us—
O rumpus & ruckus & uproar!, O brawl
& ruckus & fuss!—I just want
to rip my heart’s hair out. & shave down
to nothing to be nothing but thump
& pulse. & become nothing but eyes
appearing to float in the murk behind the trees
like say a wolf or some other wild thing
among the vines & branches. Yes
& just pacing & doing nothing but pacing
like speeding on amphetamines
back when we were kids when the hope was
to get as fucked up as possible—getting blind
we sometimes called that: getting blind
& going blind & being smashed.