"It and Me"

Let the body, mind nap: bundle into layered
hibernation: roll down into the enfolding
creature’s massive lap – kiss its it-ness: burrow
into a sequestered private inward view,
just outside a dream but with the drift of dream:

a scheme important, somehow, it would seem,
to psychic wealth: as if the gentle giant’s crotch
into the volupté of which you’ve driven
your frail substance seeking its rare gifts
of half-deep half-sleep held the only redolent

dark hope you had you wouldn’t botch it up:
prevent a coalescing of your shredded
winter consciousness, where – now, as if you
were a monkey in a jungle, all you know
to do for any semblance of trajectory is grab

another vine, as if it were a rhyme whose
meaning lay entirely in how it bungled towards
a kindred rhyme: as if to think consisted quite
entirely of cupping palms to catch whatever
dropped in them to drink. Your brain, by now,

is asininely nothing but an assonance in search
of assonance. Winter now consists completely
of retiring to that warm giant’s lap to sleep.
Commemorative pap to keep: incise a heart-
and-arrow in your psyche’s tree. “It and Me.”



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