without a stone to pave my floor with hardness,
I still stand on this air like a standing formula,
like the end of aimless beginnings in some strange medal,
some iridescent man with calluses.
on this floor, on this mountain I have with me
a tribunal of Gods, of mythological meter-maids,
who stare at me in disbelief, these goats:
we rule all, but why is he smiling?
indeed, the corners of my mouth are stretched
from aorta to blood, from despair to aspiration.
they had seen the promise of girl, of a fluffy breast
with dandelion hair and an eye to slay questions.
she opens and I turn to the pogo sticks in my breath.
the two zydeco-jazz 'round the room, Aphrodite
in the accordion, cordially nodding to the door
of promises that leave formulas standing for the true scientists.
12.1.98
(
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