High summer clouds unpeel  
their gothic lace,  
like dime store tissue  
hiding a rhinestone watch.  

I cannot see them.   
My fever won't let me.  
Frank Sinatra sings  
on the radio by the pool.  
My doors are locked.   

Somewhere this sky  
is showing its center.  
Where God spits.  
I can feel it on my head,  
growing like a one day rose.  

If I were brave  
I would stare into the sun  
and blind myself.  
But I have already done that...  
and well.  
The sacrifices are coarse.  

I am shaded and shook  
tapping with a palsied knock  
on sheets washed in heat.  
This is a hex.  The wrong song.  

So sleep.  Sleep.  
Somewhere this sky  
shows its center like a jewel,  
a fat wet vagina  
smothered in ice.  
 

from Steaming 
(c) 1993, Black Tie Press