[ poetry - july 07 ]
I'd give my eye-teeth for a moment
of quiet. But the eye roves - the eye,
wrist, thigh, whole heart.
The whole heart, blood-slick and heaving
as a cat, nearly alive, packed
with buckshot: sodden and fat and horrifying.
The whole heart, thrashing
gracelessly, on. And just outside
of its understanding, the body - mind-
ful of nothing, slaughtering, fucking,
drinking, eating. My lonely selves, half-
brothers, sleeping, in separate rooms.