Song of the Husbands

for Henry


All winter the kind husbands hover
like mortgaged angels. One
smells gasoline in his sleep, would
be my lover. They want me 

to be well. Specimen, they say, and
mean endearment. I row
into the flood. The vodka 

turns the lemon to crystal, the
carp turn the pond to shit and hunger, 
the lingerie turns the trunkful
of lingerie into a special trunk. 
And the husbands, the husbands…

If asked they will install a water feature. 

I tend my minor art, 
I push my sorrow cart, 
the women sing to the women o’er the prison
walls: Daughters of Elysium!: as 

I elysium myself to sleep and, 
waking, wear a
poppy cast from silver around
my neck. I grow
ashamed of my teeth, I pawn, redeem, 
pawn, redeem, shoo 

deer from the poison hedge. Oh
leanmost season. Speak, 
husbands; speak, cocked
honeys; speak. This realm is just a climatron


This realm is just a climatron askew, and
wet today wherein I forbid a boy 

to go comp/rhet; he’s smart, plus
beautiful. The poets gather
around the fire pit. I’m learning
to account for grace, wordline
traveling up my spine in what
blued fluid lives there. Plus
messaging: the poets all
night: so that I wake much bleared: something 

about Zoroaster? transpired? And
why? My lover always loved
the orchid’s prominent clit, so bought it
potted always. Always I killed it. Still, 

am glad for all the species, azaleas & so
forth as I wander listless as the
husbands text for surety: 
okay? Am, and it’s good of 

them, given yonder hills where elk
eat poison yew and eating die the way
we all do, if lucky: for beauty: while 

down below the neighborhoods go
marmed w/ ordinary beds. Listen: in
the climatron, the air went
so lush with spores we choked who 

wandered there and wandering had
no choice but swallow even
as the gift shop prepared to close.