FROM EZEKIEL | FROM EZEKIEL

FROM EZEKIEL

Simon thinks a kiss is both the life and death of God.
He says Alyosha was right all along,
but I don't know who that is. The truth is,
for all its humorless tilling and bad stabs at balm,
kissing accomplishes nothing but restlessness
and a dry nose. What makes it irresistible
is its wetness like some half-thought
that keeps me curling forward. If it weren't
for clothing or ice, I'd never really
want to be dry. I'd hate everyone but breasts
and dawn like a spoonful of black oiled wool.
I love my mother, but I wish she were happier.
If I could build a place for her to rest, I'd build
the center of a peony bud, and her parents
would be alive like two ants setting her free.

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FROM EZEKIEL

I found my first haunting
hanging from the roof by his enormous hands.
I did not think the dead needed saving
from the weakness of their grip,
but as it turns out their screams
are more honest than wolf crying.
I am going to kill you, he said,
and still I retrieved a ladder
and helped the haunting down.
I am going to kill you, he said
as finally we stood beside each other.
The grass was tall
and beneath the grass I felt remorse
like a line of insects crawling up my legs.
The haunting lowered his head
and began to weep—he could not
fulfill his duty, so I took my shirt off
and gave it to him. The shirt
I had found earlier in the day
in a birdbath no bird would bathe in.
No bird would bathe in it.

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