Love Poem

Almost but not quite night
In Midas’s cursed state,
Its liver a poisonous gold.
The goose has been eating her eggs.
A palm is a tarantula
Against an oyster sky,
Pink in the watered blood
Of the late sun’s prey.
History itself exposed
As a trap, a jaw, a ramp
To the unspeakable pit. A
Woman burned alive, on
The subway, full human candle,
By a stranger with a can of gas—
Standing in her wet flesh
As the tendons grip and char.
No one helps or seems to care.
No one can identify the corpse—
New York. But in the future.
Cherry blossoms fall.
Nothing is real. Nothing
We used to know is true.
The fat river sucks in
Its shoulders, seems to hunch,
Grumble, dip and leap,
Burst down the ravine
Foaming up in fountains,
Brown with trash and cows.
But you are with me in the boat.