from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DC

                                I dip my fingers in my face.
                                Corposants, magnisonant:

                                to sing now would ruin the sauce.

                                                I keep phoning

                                                lack, I can’t lick my skin

                                                fast enough.

                                                                We are blood, not atmosphere.

                                                                Perhaps I should have said this

                                                                earlier: it means nothing

                                                                more than the flora and fauna

                                                                it sustains,

                the few square inches of body

                drifting along as an edge,
                ears flooding clear and carried,

                fingers trailing torrents,
                a head sometimes indistinct

                from the waters.