White Dwarf
Daniel Moysaenko

Pubic arch doesn't smell like cut metal,
but the uncut metal still wet and part
of the ground. Copper

cigar pacing in the lawn
before running the car in the garage at night,

what you remember of mulch and worn pajamas.

I noticed that fumbling
with whisky. It's something I can't change:
A cave origin hooded over with white coating like ice cream

or the signal of a planet I take to be continuing.
It's already dead 10,000 years. When

someone says, I'm leaving, I think she means downstairs. I'm
the milky and utterly
numbed. Yes. There's what's boxed

and not in boxes. The slow glide over it
to get to the bathroom.

Tomorrow morning when the floorboards are resigned, I'll wear a blue shirt,
and drive where I don't live yet.


Lines thirteen to fourteen are adapted from lines in Robert Hass' "Against Botticelli."

1996 © 2011