Autumnal horseflies fabricate
fornications ‘round cracked
streetlamps throwing cold light
before fistfuls of rain,
and the hickory trees in panic.
Inside, more serious than I,
you’d have remained in bed
for a period of twenty years,
a body at loss of definition,
and shot nerves, under the gaze
of pale-skinned young nurses,
the smell of mold rising
from the floor. Formerly little more
than a succession of local
phenomenon—like feet growing
accustomed to the dark—
you are the bloodiest Christ,
trundling off to the cultural center
with a projector
under one arm—we must
get you interested in a girl,
a friend who might do
everything for you, front to back,
only, I might have done it better.