I Love You Best

Of all the things that don't exist
I love you best, my Herculean mythmaker, my wee god.

In the sea four naked girls, a flat stone I wear over my heart,
and all the while Penelope unravels a shroud.

In the wall beneath the Ukrainian work boots
bricks break and fall:

"That is not art," said the museum guard,
curtly closing the curtains.

Oh, I desire. Yes. Not just firemen and pilots and police,
not just the uniform, but the form itself.

Pain is the failure of reason.
This is a hollow full of rain.

Simone, our timing is off. Just when the body looses its truth
I become most hungry for you.

Tell me about the emptying out of desire,
the gas chamber of the ego.

Undo the shadows, undo the moon,
the plum picker’s granddaughter is glistening.