Accidentally Going to Winnetka

Oh dross,
dappled with dew.
It is colder again
and you come
in rapid bursts.

Reciprocity until
the point of shaking.
Us trying to get in
the other through
blunt force

on the front. You
lay there limpid,
going about like a
tidal pool grass might.
And then you

did night
for a long time.
Imagine being a
schmuck, sitting
in the grass and gravel

on the side of a road
'cause you're lost.
Take out a cigarette
and smoke it, and
wait to go home.

Fuss over the
boy with the cellphone.
Mothering until
the point that mothering's
debated in small groups.

(It does not look alright)
I do not know if you're
lounging on
that bed of moss
with sex in the air,

or plastered there;
stricken with loss;
just making lists
in your head. Maybe
both is accurate.

for a Gimlet

The equity is
twitterpated,
I am too.

Which, in a weakness
returned to
what was easy,

adolescent fantasy.
Like Schiele
done up with full shading.

It was not funny how
you seemed as though
from your head

to the bottom of your spine
had been stretched out!
Luminosity of the

flesh, yes. Firm
nipples that seemed
inflated, young

boxer face; small features
and deep set eyes
and big ear lobes.

You had a smooth face
and eyes that were like
spheres of water, not

connected to you necessarily,
taking everything in and
putting it somewhere.

Remember your Marfan
Syndrome? And what it meant
to the Frank Herbert people?

That the spice floes
were growing thinner
meant something.

That the huffing of tea breath
was growing thinner,
though the mounds were growing

met our expectations.
Oh God! the whole kitchen
is a mess of pans boiling over,

an old gilt sacle,
sheaves of papyrus,
and the things for a gimlet.