for Jim Tate
You were right, darling—
this is how it looks at the end of the century.
Weird curves in the distance—
and only a fragment are highways
the rest belong to the landscape.
And all those tongues and sex parts jutting out—
it’s hard to ignore them
no matter what kind of girl I am.
That figure in the distance is not a peacock.
It’s a man waving. It’s
that causes confusion, I think.
My lover’s mouth, too, keeps coming up
again and again as a sofa
full of teeth and good intentions
and I can’t say no, now, can I?
Come in, come in, he says. Have a seat.
From West Branch