Because there are things we don’t understand, we’re shaking
our heads no. But still there are acupuncture needles,
mysterious as Excalibur, in a numb chest,
working. We shake our heads no but a ten-mile fish
scratched into plateau takes fish-shape only from ten miles
up; it dates back to the Pleistocene. No. Say the ivy doesn’t
eat light, say the other nine-tenths of iceberg and two-thirds
of brain are out of sight out of mind, there was not a hailstone
soccerball-big on the roof of Old Lady Hathaway’s house
back in ’54, there is no such thing as the extrasensory yo-yo
thread growing warm, and taut, when I turn my back to you and it
pulls me facing you moist-eyed again and the sheets crease
like siamesetwin-placenta between us now and I’m in you like crazy.