When I sit down for dinner the waiter coils my beard in a small stone bowl.
I pierce the orange to the pith and the egg to the orange.
To pith: to pierce the spinal column and render immobile.
Moths rest with their wings open; butterflies have no ears.
Angels pet the palms of my hands burn smooth.
The sores on my feet fester with unquiet heat.
People and pearls, scattered and scarred, naked and nacred.
I’m at the center of an asterisk of sinistral paths.
Every paw- and claw-print points in my direction.
The birds rise to the horizon before dawn sounds.
The rag-and-bone men crawl toward Golgotha.
Cancer riddles and heart attacks strike and the heavy bored are stroke-stricken.
And me with my cockscomb crest and ass’s ears.
Henry muzzles the bottom of his cup.
Henry’s “here’s the thing” never leads to thing itself.
But here’s the thing:
Don’t get any ideas.
Ice will glass every river.
The heart knows no ordinary stories.