I feel no sense of religion except this.
Each hand like
a bastard on my lap.
I am thinking of the size
of a tiny darkness
in my palms
that shake out verse
like emerald hummingbirds.
I keep thinking of the word Rhododendron.
In my mind there is only this word
in different sentences.
I plant a rhododendron where your head should be.
It is Christmas Eve in Brooklyn.
I peal an orange in the nebulous vapor
and everything is quiet.
I take toast to the window
and throw the rind at the moon
that recedes into the clouds
like an iridescent testicle into the holy lap of the atmosphere—
I am thinking of the body again.
Tonight at 8PM: Poetry by D. Nurkse, MRB Chelko, Bianca Stone and music by Caitlin Claessens at The Old Stone House (336 Third Street, between 4th and 5th Avenues in Park Slope).