My Palace in the Shade
I’ve spoken to my hands before,
whenever I’ve had visions
of Hitler in hell with a hose up his rectum;
my laugh reaches new limits.
Why—peeping through Hoffman’s camera—am I
more alive alone now than when I am with another man?
I know people have nightmares about blood,
if not blood, roots. It’s an excuse
to keep dying, or ask for the time. My palace
in the shade is full of books packed with questions.
Is the law, cops rubbing their eyes, and its curvature,
an American sentence? Does it have the right
Is it true doves demand they be allowed
to go to war in heaven?
I’ve become a saint. My grace has
a catheter in its nadir.