A fog of grapes and hops, call it sleep,
a life with no poetry to be found
in supermarket novels and issues of Cosmo,
no mind-expanding repartee. �The people
around me blow big bubblegum balloons
filled with talk of diets and cheap toe rings,
the fashion merits of capris.

Smash open the jackal-headed canopic jar
where I�ve stashed my brain, restart a heart
self-embalmed with margaritas and empty
kamikaze kisses. With the quiet power
of your words, send mercy to this rude stream �
with your unselfish tongue, carve a new bed
where wellsprings can surface and roll. �

Your breath cools geothermal currents
roused by strokes of your palm; your mouth
encourages my greediness. I snatch fistfuls
of your indulgence, wanting to be on display,
nude before open curtains, photographed
under fast-food tables mmmm, yes, so right,
I�m guilty but feel no guilt, though I ask all

for half in return, pay my debts to another
with bright wishes I steal from your fountains.

~

ERWA July '03