WATCH ME BLOWTORCH

The wasp pursues its rock-n-roll

resolutely and unmindful

of the dumb neighbor’s dumb

mimetic dog, and for that matter, also,

the maple.  Basil plant or chemical, whatever

you want.  The wasp dives into the wall

again.  Morning waning, and almost noon again,

I’m thinking it’s not information,

the robins and finches.  Meanwhile,

I am at a point on the moon

of a distant planet, afraid

of choking in my sleep

on a dear pile of books: Alphabet,

Physics, and Keats.  Or, alternately,

my little daughter beats

on a jumbo roll of toilet paper

like she’s the new-jack drummer

for Slayer.  The sky wishes everything

otherwise of course.

The words of the day are

radiance and Satan.

POEM

Here against the wind is my head

for your hands.  Take it and throw away

the key.  Take it so that no one else may enter

and so that I may never find out how

you found me in the wave

of this pasture.  Lucky

for both of us the sky is an emerald;

the trees are a box of broken saltines—

lucky, because you are

a rigid assessment

of peaches, little fishes, and white cheddar cheese.

I don’t know anything, or if we have a future

in space or in lava, but I do know my heart

is a muscle and also you are beautiful

you are beautiful.

alex lemon

nate pritts