there is a pinprick
of light. It’s hot. It stirs. It’s spring–
pitiful and sweet as a small girl spanked.
My love, all of it, a life of it, has been
too little. Nor has my rage ever forced any diamonds
out of the blood through the skin.
for someone like me will be. The teenage
girls are being dragged
out of the earth by their hair.
Tongues, testicles, plums, and small hearts bloat
sweetly in the trees. And then
a silence like water
poured into honey–
the silence of middle age.
But there are nights I feel a sacred
flower watching me.
Even in my cradle, it was waiting
warmly, its soft
steady on my insufficient face.