So bloodshot, weepy, intractable as ice floe
an eye caroms off the American landscape,
threshing every wheat field, dumpster carriage,
cotton gin for a steady hand. Over you
and me it hovers, blinking at ur-old sturgeon
last seen coddling a purse of salmon eggs,
which bulge and bloat the river till it breaks.
The porches of your ears are marvelling of course
at the sound of my voice. When you whisper such things
about my dream of ice, surely you know you're wrong
to be sure that I know you're wrong. Why else would you
prolong that thrum of the woodcock's tail upon
the beaten oak? Why would you ask me three times
what it was you thought I was waiting for?
Can't touch the shoulder of rock where the pivot lies.
Can't devolve into iron ore.
Says nothing in front of the eye.
Says piano, orange peel, tube fallopian.
Over the fontanel of fire which burns across
the wetlands, the Cayman Islands.
Over the alms of the poor.