ONCE DUMB

         

                                                                                                

i am the someone worth                                                                   

flinging

             into short creeks:

             petals unpicked

             at night,

                            stalk-bound

             and

             breaded. axes are

                                       lifting

             mayflowers out of the water. petunias

are ghost ships: they are triremes out of war.

 

and in the breath of light i

pour coins like shoveled sand and take

         rain in

                 place

of good-day sunshine. with me you will find

peace candles

           and vapor scraps

           in a

           heavy night, marsh-stinking and

monkey gray.

 

                         and now at bedtime, these fan blades are

astral soups cantankerous and deceitful as jellied wind.

 

once a convenient sun becomes familiar,

a mind that is

none of mine is coughing up opiates, strategizing

enough not to imagine.