for Jim Tate

You were right, darling—
this is how it looks at the end of the century.

Weird curves in the distance—
and only a fragment are highways

the rest belong to the landscape.
And all those tongues and sex parts jutting out—

it’s hard to ignore them
no matter what kind of girl I am.

That figure in the distance is not a peacock.
It’s a man waving.  It’s his shadow

that causes confusion, I think.
My lover’s mouth, too, keeps coming up

again and again as a sofa
full of teeth and good intentions

and I can’t say no, now, can I?
Come in, come in, he says.  Have a seat.

                          
       
                                               From West Branch