Jen BESEMER








sleep


words form a fine lace over your lips.
in your dream there are more than two hands
in your pockets. do you see, do you intend
—no, do you desire—that this should be so?
awake, you find you have one blue eye,
one amber. both together are a church
for your questions; behind those windows
dreams kneel. the lace on your lips
is stained with wine. two jewels,
a toppled goblet: dream.







sun from blood
for Marko Katic

he will find the source of the sun,
that piece of rope or twist of blood
from his own thigh, his own mouth.
sun from blood. he will surprise it
on its path, like a word chosen in error
containing more truth than intended.
it will surprise him, his eyes opening
in the mirror, the tears of sound prickling
in each corner, his fingers suddenly hot.






skis or mandolins?


onionskin or marbled endpaper?
you trek to the university of porn
and back with daisies tucked in
your armpits, each day a new
carapace, a little plaintive doily
on your breastplate. next week’s
handcart belly-up on the carpet
and your yellow planchette scurrying
around it, aflutter—no dream
can beat this, Oiseau, don’t even try.
skis or mandolins? you tell me.









 





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