Poetry

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,
That wide wet kisser we
Smacked on to justify a pipe.

I am a field.
I am a blade of grass
Within the field.

“My mother lit me (father was her match)
And set me in a draught to catch my breath.

The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.
What king was it that built this highway?

It’s a routine we’ve worked out
to pass the winter.
I saw myself in two, in three,
into a puzzle,

How I hate you tonight!
I tick off
the bumps on your back,
your hangnails, the acid

I watch the point of the twirling stick
Where you are sleeping, where you will come again.

They left their dog and a record playing,
the boy and girl next door. Last night

they argued to music, like they do;

I wallowed in a needle-spawned world,
addicted to dope and the crazy life,
and yet there I was—in Berkeley
for my first poetry reading.

They are not
imaginary but
accessible only
intermittently.