i have no box

i have no box in which to place
the soft accumulating driftwood
talking gentle to my naked back
(marking each caress
with abandoned ballpoint pens)
without a warm maw to call home

she lopes gangly inside the bath,
where the tepid-sickly-sweet
laps at my chest
and the petals collect
in orbits under her spheres;
my feet caress the globe
but the pavement burns my soul
(if i had two i’d kill myself and lose one)

the ark feels soft, Noah
thinks in singsong happyhand,
but whorled queerly (blank)
in cogs and coagulations
so (lachrymose at best)
ankle-tying and agitating;
and there’s gopher wood
under my left middle fingernail

the lark wrote duets,
but the thrush easily
cut the back of her knees out
and the lark collapsed
and spun tossed
into my empty hand

so i sing with the lark sweetly:
but we both know it’s not the same.