I find my birthday in another man’s mouth. Mistake,
I know. The second sin of waking. Louis Zukofsky,
January 23rd, 1904, the winter droning on about winter,
The chiasmic wind tethered to the lamppost,
The modern world wrestling over the consequence
Of two snails rubbing their mollusk necks against each other
And deciding they are not modern though they grieve
Over the tiny disturbances palm fronds make upon ponds.
This is of little consequence you’re sure: the countries
Liquidated and burning through the last paycheck of autumn,
Citizens spilling themselves across sidewalks,
The police horses made nervous by the chants sliding off
The apricots and persimmons we ate this morning.
Where do the colons end? How do I say: I matter
As much as a winter coat draped over a skeleton lashed by snow,
Snow battering the lake, the storm shutters. A pair of ribs.