Morning

Contumelious straights with hampered joyous prose
Walk tightly across the doctor’s grey lawn
I asked for an ashtray without having smoked in years
Stead in clear of my rival for this small bump like a shoe
What will be the worthy one to you, dear Eliza, trumpeted on high
Elixirs for morning prose and songs of Bridget Pegeen Kelly
Dancing in doorstops forgetting we know how to dance
And to walk; these stairs for fear of soft absence in salt baths and scurry
For I don’t know you the same way you know me
But I can fain indifference to the salt bath just this time, please don’t forget
Or forgive the consequences of my position locks in sediment
For the forester of an gray apple on the doctor’s lawn
Who knew nothing of my pain or forgiveness
Like these two bottles of consequence that dock in a stony bay
With pearls of Alaska before two blue fisherman who chime with cures
Gutted with all types of de-monitions a visitor to my circumscription
Was told of my circumcision and died of greed for God’s lost seed
I have lived in madness: will I ever have children: will I ever know a poem