THIS STICK OF GRAPHITE IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS

This stick of graphite is not like the others. You wouldn’t know it by writing.
Inside are ants, rushing up staircases, transporting eggs to safety.

I deposited eight acorns in earthenware pots, and watched ’em sit there rotting.
All but one, which put up a periscope, and turned it, intelligently, to face me.

There is a bridge to the moon, some nights, some nights. Only chariots on that bridge.
I’ll rise at night and get into my chariot. I’ll be naked, but my hands will be clothed.

First floor of the moon base is only white ash, where the least little touch leaves a print.
Second floor is an inverted pool into which swimmers can splashlessly leap.

I ran my finger along the painted surface of a sawed-off, pump-action sewing machine.
The paint came off in tiny folds, like icing, scraped off a plate.

O water dripping from the roof into a lake at the bottom of the concrete steps,
why do you wake my wife, and why | do you jump in a hundred directions?

The good thing about being dead is you stop talking. Sleep, on this point, not as good.
And waking life merely shows over and over we were not born for pleasure on this earth.

Flame, flame jets out of your palm, so when you slap my apple-like cheek,
it will leave a purple burn in the murderous shape of a five-pointed purple star.