|How Big is it? How Long Did it Last?
I'm interested in the way
two bodies in the sex of motion
eventually become silly,
interested in how rocks pile up outside
when no one's watching.
One morning you leave determined
to break the world in half
only to come home and find
someone else staking out the left ventricle
of your ocean of bed.
Years after Chen Zao died
one of his followers announced:
the man who wears his money under his hat
walks with a limp.
Words to live by, said my wife
who then left me, taking the dog,
my new shovel, axe and pick—
all the tools necessary
to unblock the hearth.
From her I have learned
my own form of relativity,
how certain kinds of flowers
will make the muscles atrophy,
how hate sometimes looks
like breakfast in bed.
Then I stumble into the parking lot
to find my car, shouting, stones, stories, wives—
the basic mysteries
science always finds in things.