jayivan

The blue jay cries out:
Shriek! to the red leaves! Shriek! Shriek!
Distant star! Cold light!

On your shoulder I
nestle my bearded face as
radiator cranks

This silence, this one,
just this very one: only
this silence is death.

We made the forest
a temple with hearts and words,
then had to drive home.

The spaces we share,
despite their bright abundance,
have dusty corners.

I wish I could talk
to you instead of writing
sad poems, yet look.

such things—metaphors,
nothing more than verbal whores
jacking off the flaccid bores

These are lies in the guise of truths.
A cloak flung over the shapeless beast
that shakes and barks in the struggle
to throw off the ill-fitting sack,
you hack.

Your big toes, so big:
simian and suggesting
prehensile pressures