Fuck me, oh God, with ordinary things,
the things you love best in this world––
like trees in spring, exposing themselves,
flashing leaf-buds so firm and swollen
I want to take them into my mouth.
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds,
say, and enormous raucous crow,
proud as a man with his hand down his pants,
and then a sparrow, intimately brown,
discreet and cautious as a concubine.
Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping
like a nymphomaniac,
all night slowly filling a filling,
then overflowing the bowls in the sink––
and with the downstairs neighbor’s vacuum,
that great sucking noisy dragon
making the dirty come clean.
Fuck me with breakfast, with English muffins,
the spirit of the dough aroused
by browning, thrilled by buttering.
Fuck me with orange juice,
its concentrated sweetness,
which makes the mouth as happy as summer,
leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit
along the inside of the glass.
Fuck me with coffee, strong and hot,
and then with cream poured into coffee,
blossoming like mushroom clouds,
opening like parachutes.
Fuck me with the ticking
clock, which is the ticking
bomb, which is the ticking heart––
the heart we heard in the first months,
in the original nakedness,
before we were squalling and born.
Fuck me with the unwashed spoon
proud with its coffee stain––
the faint swirl of a useful life
pooled into its center, round as a world.
