From the Fishouse

Sometimes the night rustles,
kittens up these gorgeous people,
and the moonlight goes on a spree.
Filtered through the lenses of a telescope
it warms the hands.
I want to shout to the wings
and not to the public,
sing to a lollipop.
I’ll be your decoy date.
I’ve had permission
to be out of work, and if God
is not watching this week,
will the devil acquit you
to my care? The sugar
is usually inside the cake,
the suffering in the cannery.
I’m restless
among glass ornaments, fat
where deposits rest easiest.
I’ve lost my irresistible impulses.
Sometimes I cast it
in the lightest terms.
Sometimes revision
seems the handrail of grief.
Often the comb hops out of my hands,
a blooded thing.