On Physiography

The moon is snoring like the fattest of all babies



Its soft, fragrant flesh / spilling into the night

Crippling its bassinet

which is darkness

which is silence



Is angry



The stars hang around

like a mobile

being swatted at

Unconsciously / between snores



by soft palms

Baby palms



Now the stars hang around

like a menace of teenagers

who I want very badly / to beat the positive

hell from



asap



I can become very angry

in like a second



It’s my behavior



& I want to hurt

severely

the actual thing / that may or may not be

the actual baby of my rage



It’s regrettable



most of the time



It’s because I want my language



very badly

to function

the way light does

when it wipes away darkness

from my window



Each morning / Like a sponge



A huge & uncompromising

& filthy



White one



A positive / stench factory



First light / Bad light



Baby light



& I’m awake just to witness

this anger / This wipe—



Is terrific



For if I had any say



the sun would be a tree

Would be positively fruit-bearing



& the fruits would be babies



Fat snoring babies

Which are LOVE





& I’d hang around like the stars

or like the sun’s amanuensis

which is the moon



whose parcelling out of the light / births this tree

Births this LOVE



There is no way that the farmer

selling the second cut / of his fields

His vast open fields / at half the price of the first



His bad, boundless fields



Could possibly be / as enraged

as I am / At how insatiably transparent



this is