Talking To Girls
You have homework. You count the bridges at rest,
The lowing, the blackberry mouths of sheep. As a peculiar machine
Squeezes you like a wrist, you standardize. This is a runway,
The exits speak little, there is mint in your mustache.
The dogstars of your return trip are a rubber horse,
A six-pack of wild boys with a fuming minotaur of a grill.
Hello is well implied. You are worried if you sneeze.
At home there is a little girl in the living room. She is flinging books.
You wonder if D.H. Lawrence sent her and do not criticize;
There is no place for fury in a parlor. A brass egg cup
Stands for reconciliation. Let us look at this together.
Its little feet. It is like a dachshund with yolk for brains.
I hate dachshunds, she says. It’s like a trogon.
Back to flinging. Mourn our beeswax bonds. We can say
That trogon has six letters. We can count them on fingers,
Our sad captains. Her knuckles are like burrs.
Perhaps she’s not even a girl; she feels like sawdust,
And should not be felt. So you have handled this wrong.
You forgot about fallacies, scavenger; you forgot about about.
There’s a baked kidney odor, a bit of intestine by the child’s eye.
Be nauseated, be angry. Regard the aureole of stink.
Correct this shoring of paper baleens. De-confuse the spines
From the dumbwaiter cables.
I don’t like your attitude, kid, but your intellect is from hunger.
Is malt liquor in a broken toilet. It comes out
And ought not go back in. But your cheeks are red…
Hindsight is a low-nosed dog. You give her grape hyacinths.
Those toy flowers. She would prefer sausages.
Cleaning up is arduous. The cats hiss in stereo,
Sing angry mother’s a-coming, hide your china,
There is a broken bone on an X-ray. It is the film that broke
And not the bone. Poor nuclear wardrobe, chest of runny earrings.
The eggs and the spoons nevertheless say
this partnership will continue.