Pink jazz flesh apples in the uptown cabarets smoking
where we prayerfully incline to hear the silent sound 
of the main riff coming through the clouds, a thread 
of Chinese silk in a painting draped as cloth around my legs. 
The colors, sun rising over peacocks and manicured tropic trees, 
green oranges and tigers sleeping. 
I am a dormouse become Alice the Goon brainstorm-sifting 
an overstocked pantry, where the bread is crust and hard, 
expired cans swim with soup, vegetable and barley. 
And when you said I reminded you of a cross 
between García Lorca and John Berryman traveling green 
in the moonlit direction of my fears, still organizing the pantry, 
seeking for true bread that is soft, the cans awash with true soup, 
vegetable and barley, I meekly squeeked for all that is freshly green, 
and blathered, I’m a cow giving milk and making spinach pies 
in total love of you.  I do not care that you hate me 
with every sinew you can lift. I want your yellow mane, 
sapphires green, the merry laugh that drove me to wed you then, 
and my coming to you in the heat.