His problem

It wraps around all

wrapped around his

throat

hard too

grips it

with a force,

caresses the groin

all muscle

tail and sinew

body not

to mention

big

black eyes.

Flicking,

writhing.

Therein lies

his

prob

lem.

I am from the two children

kissing in the basement

underneath hallelujahs

and choirs,

and warbling sopranos

with pink nails.

I am from you, from the deep red

of you, from the caves of your heart

that wanted me,

that kept me.

From the asbestos to the linoleum,

I am from the basement and the bed,

from your jeans that widened,

from your hair that whitened,

from your arms still strong,

smelling cold cream.

I am from the maple tree

that was doomed to fall

but never did. The tree lost

a limb, soft wood inside,

drops damp leaves, is

a raccoon bed at night.

Its voice is the ocean

in autumn windstorms.

I am from mourning,

from celebration,

from bowls of cereal spilled

on the floor and crunched underfoot.

I ate, I destroyed,

and you cleaned the floor

with a wet cloth.

I were to give grace;

if I were to do that

that thing

that thingy-thing that

may seem a bit silly

to closed and chilly me,

that would help you,

I think.

You, curled into a C.

When I lay me down

to sleep, maybe forever, found

in dark blankets, pillows,

folds of skin around me

do I know what lurks where

I can't go, down there in that moist place?

And what if it's no more

than a salamander, some slime, or

stink I've seen many times before?

If not forever, let me rest

till I'm better, at my best,

my head lain quiet on your chest.

Bea is a woman and

I mean WOH-man

with curves aplenty,

with vast pants and

vast plans.

Her kitchen floor

is cleaned by me,

thanks be to a check

where she writes my name

down, still misspelled.

Down the shelves,

dust bunnies hop into cloth

suiciding at the smell of lemon:

Bea, I pledge to keep

your books to shine.

Evident she reads:

I spell out down the line

with titles like

Sensual Massage and

matching CD, Understanding

Your Fibromyalgia,

Understanding

God, My Name is Red,

Three by Annie,

every poem Collins wrote,

people he read,

dead people, sick people.

When we first began

she told me, Once a month,

she dates someone,

sheepishly.

Through the internet.

Come later this Sunday.

Chris and I like to sleep in

on Sundays.

Her back door unlocked

I make sure to knock

in case they are naked,

full and waking.

This morning her man

walked out without,

de-shirted, left tiny hairs

on the bathtub tiles, and

her laugh was round.

Fearing Dark.

sometimes I look at wooden boards,

the siding, ripped by wind

chipped off by dried bird shit.

In the dark the marks are invisible.

The city dims. So do voices:

they recede into ivy plants

the green turned a deep navy blue,

shiny. Maybe Benny the homeless

rock man polishes them in daytime

In the wee hours they shout

into our iron-wrought window:

THE TIME HAS COME...

what is he saying? Is he crazy?

WE ALL MUST SEE WHAT IS NEXT.

LOOK FOR THE COMING OF IT.

I pick deep, black berries,

hundreds of them, that disappear

with disappearing fragments of sun,

until the thorns hide rustles of raccoons

and shadow people drinking beer.

I wake up in the morning, fall asleep

at night. It is the only thing to do.

Julienne, Naked.

You're a bitch, julienne,

with your face

braced for the worst

you squeeze the wurst

out of me.

You're a witch, julienne,

waltzing away

all my hard-earned

creative juice,

reduced.

You're a snitch, julienne,

slicing the knife

down my finger,

lingering at the taste

of fine blood.

One day I'll pacify you,

make love to

you on the counter.

Right now, all I do

is dice.