Dear Blue Comb
Morning unhinged, I discern a squint of moon
still affixed in the cockles of the sky’s heart
& so, linger under the sheets, streeking
like a cat indistinguishable from the light it basks in.
Wallowing, not wallowing. Imaging mystery,
consecrated meal: a meteor shower
of dry brut; pink caviar of a halved
grapefruit; & like a dune on a beach wind rakes,
a powdered dome of sourdough. A jar
of black currant jam. A Sunday paper.
A feast, ultimately, of nothing
but which feeds me. Wanting,
not wanting. The mind’s a nest
of snakes in a henhouse, isn’t it?
What hatches from it. Wednesday, an Axex
(mythological creature trapped in a pigeon’s perse body)
mistook the sliding panes for another avenue of sun
& I can’t bring myself to pick it up. Ants have already ex-
posed glimpses of its gray-blue bones,
like urns in a damp garden. Sometimes if I can’t sleep
I run. Tortuous path that returns onto itself.
Sometimes in the predawn I reach for you &
pat cool sheets, only to find on the feather pillow
not even a strain—I mean strand—of your hair.