I could swim
trailing its shadow
with leonine perfection
(no seal is put upon what is empty).
the cypress scented sweat
(Ravaged by my bad intentions to Labradors).
Knowing you posed those last photographs for him,
deceiving your planes
into Rembrandt's molded curves.
tedious as piano notes
embedded in a sweltering afternoon.
The Gate of Horn
I had a fever last night;
His left paw induced sleep.
Horses left their pastures to feed on snakes
just a question of
Dead in a Room with Clouds
Sloan did fills.
If the Lazarists hadn't gathered one more time
he would have been paper thin and blue.
Their dissent fashions loose
exempting the basement from silence.
Above cowed heads
Interfering with neighborhood antennas.
If Sloan hadn't done fills,
I would never have killed myself
in an oily bath.