Welding Feldspar and Breccia

Are you gonna let Mars go there by himself? (Part one of three)

I.

Your eyes are nothing like a sonnet.

I know you are not the faceless sun growing

large with patience and yellow tempera, growing

upward into uncertain washes of firmament.

Your skirts are predetermined and aligned

by acute focal tilts of movement—sitting on

somebody's cigarette—sweeping down

boundaries of open night—burying

instant daylight in the underside

of absence, in the drop

of dissatisfaction, in rare

chains of desire, rare

as sardine cans,

emptied.

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