Insomnia, though before unbecoming
turns my irises to opals

my shoulders, though, are still heavy
they are the buttress of the arching canopy
of my back

holding up the thick, blood-filled organ
fleece as thin as drizzle or
eiderdown

Touch me there:
in the small of my back
the soft languno down

and pour gasoline over my thighs;
drink of my feet the patriot's bane

it's seasoned, apparently, this
inability to remember warmth

neglect, where you find the old keys:
one for the mother, one for the babe

one for the master and his sundry maid

held by the butcher and the indian brave