It has always been terrible. Insert text here.
Not because of them, not because he felt sorry.
He made his world, the sun staring
In. Insert text here. Paranoia has him,

When I left the trailer, when I left
The pantry filled with soup cans past their expiration date,
When I left the living room busy with paint
And laundry-some clean, some dirty shirts-

In Shakespeare's Last Supper the
        disciples (you, me, all of us here)
        are depicted seated alongside where
        He stands at mid-table and grins
        down like an MC at our expressions—
        are we shown, the goblets gleaming,
        gloating as they goad us on to toast
        the centrality of this spokesperson,

Too young to be your mother, she's not much younger than you.

Get into bed with her. The comforter's turned down.

For awhile she will fill you with an unfathomable hunger.

If this is too specific, imagine a man.

        The black

        hotel pool

        has no diving board.

        After ten it grows quiet,

Phil runs in the yard with a clear mixing bowl on his head.
No clothes. No shoes. Just a mixing bowl. He carries a big butcher
knife and runs circles, endless circles, waiting for an animal to gut.

Awash in lace, linen, silk, the well-stretched canvas
of her eighth-month pregnancy laid bare, the woman
says, I want to feel beautiful
when reporters wonder why she pays a kohl-eyed artist
in silver bangles, plum-dried sari to spin

 On the snack counter, the cross country train,

    a lucite aquarium

houses guppies the size of thumbnail parings

    darting among seeweed stalks

which wave when I lift the box

    eye level, silver fins

You need to know I moved your stuff into my house--

    in case you wonder who took


books and bookcases, highboy, footstool, dishes, rugs--

    still good stuff, you would say,

I' m not sure I can do this

count hawks--

overshadowing us as they become dragons


whose ashen wings lure us

      to the brittle edge

of the world, glazing the fountain which sprays