the Everglades
make a river of grass,
I write a love scene
and laugh at it,
especially in later dreams,
because time is eaten
by fish and frogs,
and those frogs are eaten
by gators and guys.
I sit at a table
in a dining room
without curtains,
certain that this love scene sucks,
but too stubborn to give up,
because I am a whore poet scorpio,
full of Indian Food and television,
waiting for the night
to ask me to dance.
dosey doe,
to and fro,
the thief typing tertiary
musings, all borrowed,
because nothing belongs to us,
especially the night
and its stars,
which invariably call
the morning master.
there is a bug
making music
periodically in my ear drum,
distracting me from the love scene,
taking my kill sense
and asking for luck
as I look out the big open window,
all brown eyes,
of Patricia
wonder why and trying to write it.