Laura M. Nesbit
Return, my Fingers’ Shepherd
i sleep in litter stars gleam
like forks near an outlet,
crystal radio we coiled the copper onto-
its songs broken, hunchbacks
in the rain-tacked wheat field,
sits quiet now.
scientists sketching fill my dreams,
their pencils’ scribbles sound like bees. here
onion-weltered air, onion-flesh
the pigeons scatter.
they are sketching Venus, puzzle over bright patch
as peak or sun in cloud,
coats dust-pocked like moon. once, they knew,
smiled in unison; bed full of papers rustled tender.
i dreamt a bouquet of filaments.
clutching glass for their lovers, bowerbirds pass.
if finger tips
solder just so,
wires will tell
the current Venus’s heat makes.
i rise to dishwater rain. your heat like Venus’s,
i solder reveries avoid one
your mouth turned sugar from boot soles.
Stove: Mania, Math and Aftermath.
– words taken from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass
hills of sugar nudge stove door-
burnt grains- quintillion; wheatless, groundless,
spill- rustle lecture-
I saw the bay flame with clover
Came next day, found only snow-
sky rained milk- i’d just linen
to catch it- fever fever catching wringing-
found it water-
window after window, eggs smile
from others’ tables-
sugar grains muscle into my bed sheets-
their teeth muzzle unsleep to boil-
stove loafing in sugarhouse, put out-
snow sweats in the wheatless,
windless nights- hear it creak.