my yellow face in the police

blue sky, stranded like a lost

star. How about daylilies

in a field of cow shit

sucking sustenance like  good

gods. How about ferns

in pots as rough as a heel. How about

airplanes. And aperitif. How about I follow

you into bed with satin

hands?  How about we linger

in the hallway to hell

a bit longer? I could do this,

I could make myself obey

the earth for you.

because he has no ears

of his own. Your ears are his.

You think there is space between—

a whole sky, fat as a blue whale—

but there isn’t! God can’t even see you

in your combat boots and red cashmere

scarf from the consignment store.

There is no celestial and woman.

In fact, all 3.95 billion gods

wake up every morning

in little apartments, get dressed

in colors that can scream, and roam

the world in boots just like yours.

It never happens twice,

the beluga blows,

the sun hangs grey and washed,

like an old comforter

on a grandmother’s clothesline.

We are quickly fucked

under a sunset, like lace in an oven.

To have a heart

is to have a task, to have a heart

I know, sounds

like gravity had a baby,

but it didn’t—it’s just

floating on the first rib—

the original error of life.