By a Seattle fruit tree

Two lunatics talk physics on
a park bench by the sea
here which took fever and asked
its mother for milk and tea.
I walk, stop, study their books
they carry in their eyes speaking
on my phone to a stranger I married.
What hair they have, both like manes
cut short with a butter-knife
or something, and their faces
bear the dirt of half the city.
I hang up as someone somewhere
says something about something and they
grasp each face of theirs how
a monkey plucks the highest drupe
between bars of sunlight like here
sunlight drifts down too lazy.
Only I overhear in the crowd
thirty doves made axes swinging on
poles of light the harlot made
when she poured out that water
and went and got herself a sex change,

and those lunatics kiss again
like each face was the first pomegranate.


~ by Jeremy on January 23, 2011.

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