i can never spell deity
& that has nothing to do with you cos
you are no Rama, no Jesus, no Zeus, or
even Gilgamesh. you snore & i snore; you
drool; i drool. we are imperfect things &
so we both look for perfection elsewhere:
you in your Ford Probe turning doughnuts in
pure whiteness & me opening jewelry box
after jewelry box left on my doorstep.
the woodsman never fails me just
like driving gloves coddle your nicotine
fingers. really, there’s no comparison
there. you are spinning in blizzards & i am
picking deer hearts off velvet lining &
always a mirror waits to say something.
mama doesn't know why the sonnet. she doesn't know how the sonnet. she doesn't breathe the sonnet. she doesn't eat the sonnet. she doesn't even drink the sonnet.