Wipe away the world, this rain, I pray you do.
The velvet wings are so many, the kisses so few.
I dream of her and her firm, round, proud rear.
I may be in Nova Scotia come this time next year.
I could almost place her face, the angel she stole it from.
She gave me a hug, a kiss on the cheek; it struck me dumb.
In my dreams I man a lighthouse, and keep the crow fed.
She is slitting Satan’s throat as I lay half-awake in my bed.
I want to touch her face, lay kisses on her tears, make them bombs.
I live alone on the rocky island, and write novels read by soccer moms.
Her strong thighs I want as earmuffs, keeping out sound, letting me adore life.
I saw once an angel out of the corner of my eye, and he offered tea to his wife.