from ROSWELL/GREENCREST

Roswell Park Cancer Institute

Buffalo, New York

4/16/17

Easter Sunday

I.

i am the wrong dream for this

dispensary.

in the doctor’s scrawled

rx i the misinterpretation

of a spike of ink present

my bodied might

desperate to harmonize.

the cut bowel

the made-up night

a bed of tasks.

swollen limbs.

heads

[daffodils & tulips in the stone pot]

turn as i go by.

II.

it has to go through night

to get to the holiday

of release.

the body’s night is

strange with quiets

& with breath.

grains of secret

time passing, pain

like flags that flap

in dream. red

pop.

if there is a night

it is longer than a

vein

shiftless as mercury

on a pale translucent

dish.

V.

we heard the sun break

through the window &

we were OK

our floors made

timing

made aluminum

sparks

wheel-shine positing

theories

how the city

closes at easter

that life-bread

becomes scarce

things need

planning

so much sun

our deeds in surrogate

hands

don’t wake us up

VI.

a river

placed between

the ribs

vivid dreams

parties boaters

on the reservoir

of the belly

a mass of aggressive

carolers

the body’s

fear of invasion

so many ways

to dream of violation

in a cut flesh earth

VII.

the lake is a flexed muscle

sheathed in cloud.

the city twitches its

indecisive pelt.

our seven stories

change with each telling

—the doors

on the elevator.

what we take in

what we bring

hidden beneath our

coats

to our days

contraband unknown

as the future

as tomorrow’s needs.