by Nicole Zdeb
Just escaped the cosmic dustbin,
March’s swirling floodwaters, and
you’re a master of beginnings,
the bright idea, strong coffee.
You hit your head more than once
against the deliberate consideration
of others. You like to fall in love.
You like to fall.
You build landings for the sky.
Subject to high fevers,
clairvoyance and weird dreams.
You want seven
women on seven seas
to bear your silvery seed.
You speak in puffs of smoke,
your mouth a popular sculpture.
A more desperate man would reach for his hat.
You look like you’re swallowing clouds.