Go out like Charlie Chaplin, that's the plan--
kicked up behind me, our forgotten reel
will spill the laddered splices, all uphill
else how could woman love another man?
Like horses, we reveal our selves in eyes
set sideways, every fear and every lie
spilled free from lashes' guard--apprenticed by
the little stream which silence cannot dry.
And so we waddle forth. We drink, we fuck
pretense--ankles swaddled. Deeply stuck,
sore fingers, eyes, comportment, policies--
all forfeit to the fortunes danced by bees.
Tongue out! Eyes sharp! Sew pockets tight for gold
too cheaply bought and far too cheaply sold.
Before the song throat longs, it was in egg
laid luckily in nest too high for snakes
or deep beneath sands wind whipped soft and vague
enough to hide an egg until it breaks.
A magpie cannot help but gaude her nest
with tinsel wonder, flattering the sun
with mirrors, blinding eyes whose hands molest
or break the best thing she has ever done.
Even Elephants mourn the week in half,
the mother's soft foot raised to halt
the flight of warmth that rises from her calf.
Our dust, their dust--all the same result.
Mother magic spots and socks and weaves
protection spells from strands of hair and leaves.