Who knows how to deal with

The complicated kind

Of fluid flow in which brothers

Are carried by larger brothers

Carried by larger brothers and so on,

The characteristic feature of

Catholicism. A worm in one

Corner of the sandbox, a mouse

In the other, a fruit fly

Overhead—and there you appear,

A jar into which someone is

Peeing. A boy or perhaps his

Father. You ask yourself

When is the time to love

Somebody more. After they love

You first or after they’ve learned

To dislike the way

You love them back….

Whatever you do don’t

Extend your neck like

A defeated mime. And

Don’t send in an animal

To do a rhyme’s work.

Now put your I where

Youth is. The month of

May, about as socialist

As a crack dealer. You

Might have known

I couldn’t be trusted with

Three little words.

The United States

Of America, where

We watched in horror

And honor because

We couldn’t tell

The difference.

Consider the poet Amy Lowell.

Her evening dresses were small

Fearful bears. Keep in mind the withered

Cock next to the vulva.

The nostalgia of Bartleby.

“I love you,” she says, “now get off me.”

Lotion is a vicious cycle.

The calluses inside the church bell.

The ringer inside the boy.

Prize the penis away from the balls,

And what have you?

Fingernails with vertical lines, were they

Always there?

Take another look.

You are bulbous.

Only from the shoulders up.