Charm to Dispel Night Terrors
Make the sign of the guard dog.
Pat your thigh. Keep this in a matrix
in a glass jar, suspended in brine.
Fat drops of spit rain down. The air,
baked and roiling, squalls inside
the house, where there’s slick light,
where some spinal thing is gathering
what it knows around it. The sweet pear
is turning slack, turning black-sour
in your mouth. The vortices wait
in the hills, the very long roads
and the vacua of the desert.
Fever cattle are not real, even though
they ride this way most days, steaming.
You brought the whole mouth out and practiced. The land like a man’s shoulder. This is the scale
although where there are hands there are glaciers there are rough hewn clergymen there is measurement
thirsting to be catalog.
By the mountain by its ceramic grip. Wax casts of clouds and punched them through with dye
and iron pins. The bluing lead consumed its mold. I didn’t touch it but I can’t wipe it off that buzz that
livewire stink like a cyclopean radio. A fistula for sound.
You’ve got a mountain and I’ve got a day like a churn handle and we are coming up on the time
of my death. Sunbent copper shielding the alpines the crushed snow and spritz the lip shredding
as if to sing as if the lemon-coated throat might open. Blessed corneas and cragged limits. As if to sing.