After Gerald Stern

If you saw me asleep in a bed of Lamb’s Ear,

you would know the fairies were drunk with power.

If you saw me leaving kimonos out to dry,

you would smell sweet mustard staining my hair.

If you saw me sweet-talking the basil,

you would give your condolences to my mother.

Oh, if you saw me worshiping soft dawn mud,

you would know I was constructing a life out of jute and tweed.

If you saw me painting bones with sandalwood, if light

starts to pool by my feet, you would know the kettle has

been singing angry tunes, that my breath still smells like tangerines.

And if you can hear the films on sad mathematicians,

you would know I want to taper myself into thin sheets of gold.

If the vapors that clear June skies start to fade—

if the lawnmowers cease their cosmic drones,

you would know, how like fossilized insects,

I want to coat myself in the warm amber of your words.