You want to know did I have a name for the baby.
But my body was learning a new language: cutterage. Nictitating eye of moon.
I traced each word behind my lids
in razor-light white.
I almost forgot to tell you: a boy. A wilderness
of street lamps. He shone bleakly and took me home.
He fell from a seven-story high wire and I thought it had to be a dream,
I thought I'm so happy you're
Each morning I wake up a little crueler. Each morning my heart is
a vulture beating its wings for scraps.
Each morning it's happy birthday
from the bottom of a river. Happy birthday, sang the hollow-point night
that pulls back the red silk of muscle
and lets the rot bloom.