The Man Who Wanted to Be Sylvia
He tried on your stockings.
They itched and ran.
He sniffed at your panties
And woke up with a cold.
He whittled himself down to your profile.
The moon made his shadow look like a twig.
He kidnapped your children, vowing to raise them.
They left him at the table, pouring milk in their
He purchased a beehive.
By summer it was vacant.
He razored his veins, juggled pills down his
The hospital charged him an arm and a leg.
He planted yew trees in the yard.
The locusts swarmed early.
He followed a corpse to its burial, whispering,
The rain washed his footprints away with the wreath.
Finally he stuck his head in your oven,
Letting your death sift through his bloodstream,
And vaguely sensed the second thoughts
You lost like a poem as you slept.
With just my bucket
I am not a poet
Who can raise his voice inside the orchard.
The poets stand
And drop fresh apples from top branches.
I run, palms up,
Catching words they banter.
Green or red
What falls is finely polished.
We'd worship Winesaps
If our hearts like tongues could taste them.
Whose rump splits almost humanly.
Both turn golden
In the ripe sun slowly sinking.
They revel like Blake's
Or the birds Saint Francis converted.
Perched in the great trees
Their small talk sings electric.
Away from the cider well
Where only poets
May drink their fill, I have planted
Only poisoned apples yield.