Tight


I tightened all my poems,
made them tip top,
made the lines stop
where the lines stop.

I turned my leer into a gaze,
I made the swans dance
and let the pigeons loose
to find their dark coops.

I untwirled the dangling cursive
to root in heavy stock,
I am tighter than a tendon,
culled as a clock.

I am tip top, sleek shock,
new-smelling, no spot,
no unsightly brain/heart
muddling the stanzas,

the spare Italian rooms.
Oh, those Italians.
I build living rooms in
the ideal railroad apartment,

your eyes are the hot and cold
running water. My God,
I'd almost forgotten you,
that devilish grin.

You know this, but I love you.
I've got everything really tight.
When they come, those people,
I'm going to say it. "I write."


12/19/2000