Swan

Amy, Amy, at this distance you’re the smell of liver, tinnitus that keeps me up, afraid: your fortressness must now be tested. The way you took me in without a surfeit click or gesture: seagull kerchief binding my gut to safety on the swimming haul among night-images.       I went to the place I was born and it plainly was a bride. So I ran after her. When she turned into a star I swallowed her. And out of this uneasiness will come an aster. Amy, I’m inside my granddad’s mind of wood: the grass is finer, constellations thicker. The plums are normal. How much sugar did you buy alone at Waldbaums? Brook reeds here wake from your hair’s soul’s chilly patronage. The hair’s the soul, the reeds its body—alone in their beds like schoolgirls: I feel and feel them up. The cigarettes have made them crazy! But a rabbit someone flows out of the embankment and I shiver for you, Amy oh lengthy dappled wig: there’s a swan in your breathing. There always is.