Not Spring Yet

One diamond of light in my vision
disappears; it was a mirror; it was sliced open like a finger.
My eyelids like curtains shut over this moon, whatever it was.

Dunces walk upon our roof
with firecrackers in their dumb, white mitts,
dogs wander into death like quiet rainstorms, stick
their pink tongues out

onto the floor of the universe, and laugh for nature, curl
the dark
like real tobacco cigarettes.

Elsewhere, Christmas trees have been lined up against a wall
as if waiting for a firing squad.

The smallest one trembles for life. He’s a scared boy. And I don’t
blame him. Rifles up…

Ice slowly melts.
The bluebirds shake out of their
crazy slumbers.
Our white bed is made.

In it, we sleep for the first time.

But we are in the form of one black corpse
outstretched—a bat, a burned oak--we as a couple look like this:

her breasts flattened like old leaves,
mud in her eyes,
her lips like dried blood

This is what warmth showed us.
Love isn’t on my mind at the moment.

That is the canyon I find myself in, where
once
someone slept,

and was peaceful until now.