if i begin a poem with �my love�
who listens? the one behind the bluest
shade, the man with my chewing gum
behind his ear, the one parting my legs
with the frenzy of the sea?

the one i�ve placed on a low couch
diddling his guitar...

to get out of myself i dress
in violence, a catsuit shimmering
a force-field � only the man
that answers with cool diction,
illogical syntax brings me down

from my balloon, lays me
on the street
where the sun can see.

he packs me in his portmanteau
with worn books and phonographs �
i travel on dreams of clover,
chin tucked into his gentle hair

tin toes on rooftops,
a world built
from timbers of glass.