I have saved this for you–
each morning I heap new–
treasure on its peak–
each night an astral body sheds–
its ill; our sun.
the center is rot–
slow stew churns–
my treasure I heap still–I stole–
a star stretching arm from hip.
Now the earth’s ill
smells of your night sweats.
And look here, there is still a top middle and–
underneath–clay awaiting a face, sand–
strung seaside in midtide–
their moats drowning their doors.
Your fingers plow–
offer a parapet to mine–
mine, cradle verge–whole
your neck, finger steps from lobe, at the crest
the descent to sinew and shoulder.
Don’t turn your head.
I watched your five years pluck dancing, while invisible mansion
sprawled, surviving summer’s hives
when daughter you wore my eyes for a split,
outlaw-loose-with-treasure, second. surrounding:
wet lipped fog, an installation in our small town; the barren beige;
your sticky youth,
joining our hands–famine impressing
feast. paid our ransom to raven working,
winter crows addressing their lunch. our wonder
inches deep–submerged in cut, sullen hay–
you tickled the last green clover–a boy trapped in
rapunzel’s watchtower, you said.
you, eschewing his hard luck with your roadside
know-how–you and your knack to put good
on its heels.
then we stood on a bridge, three
quarters past your lunch due,