I was porous again. They had warned me, in American accents.
In flowed the windows. In flowed stoven crusts and mud.
The crusts were broken, the wings, too.
Some flowers survived, quick matches struck
like car-lights reflected in a fuddled
honeybee’s eyes. Can’t you see it’s night?
Time to shut up shop.

Remnants, fragments, as in the aftermath
of a great flood, a landslide.
And at the airport: planes arriving and departing.
Business as usual, while the rebels pulled in.
And his fingers in my mouth, deft with red pollen,
turning up the AC, lopping off shadows
with the ceiling fan,
the automatic motions of a routine control,
his businessman’s drone.

The night outside, heart-throb with insects.
Lift up your skirt he said, and I did.
His car was a Cadillac from an old song,
60s soul, the traffic in lines
an extended ghost, a blur of shining cadavers,
I heard a rumble and fuzz
of the city getting at it,
and when we had closed all the doors
making a killing, as it always does.

We sold deer we found inside us,
both living and porcelain.
Take off your shoes I said, and he did, she did, too:
cut the flowers, place them in a vase.
Don’t make the glass for the vase, it would take ages.
Rummage for hours in my wilderness,
finding nothing wild.
But look, and touch, stroke, and kiss,
the look not quite
connected to the touch, touch sliding
off the look. Put stoppers in it:
block the flow. The ringing in my ears
not the bells of churches, but of buoys
in freezing waters, deepening distance with a melt of ice.
Take off your head, I said.