名人诗歌|Satellite Convulsions

When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions， I

am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally^{1 I stand}

in the littoral^{2 zone： a lensno an aqueous humor， my}

feet on the land below the high-water mark， my hand

a glazed^{3 waver： hello light-purple lights， hello red spots，}

you've beaten the stars out tonight but you're struggling with the

atmosphere， ain't ye？ Over centuries the river became not

a river： Lethe's end crept togetherself-scavenging sea

snake the middle filled with watermorphology dubbed^{4 it}

a lake now the moon swims in it the moon orbits it

the moon tidally tugs^{5 on it. The moon is a satellite in a fit}

of paroxysm. One minute past， I emptied an aluminum^{6 can}

of dull opiate to the drains to wash down my antipsychotics

then Lethe-wards slunk I. There must be this wire shaking

loose in my mind， an unattended firehouse， a spasmodic

filament^{7 attempting to cool the baby planet but lacerating}

precious gray matter. Thought leaves no vacancy^{8 for memory}

I forget forget the rules， the thirst an auger^{9， rain only whetting10}

it， I bend lap some lake up， tongue it， suck the silty^{11 mammary}

right where a light from the firmament^{12 meets it. I keep forgetting}

the rules， a Ptolemaniac with stars suns circling me； I keep

missing my cues， can't arrange the particles moments are made of

and it's all good！because when I bend seriously back peep

at the satellite convulsions I am a sluiceway for night rain. If I love

at least I love aptly， terminally， like a man who loves his dinner until

he's done with it， then settles to the couch to easy pixilated dreams

（bounced off， yes， satellites， beamed into a pale dish）。 And still，

even unfettered by history or hope， the world does not seem

shockingsimply something to fly a canvas balloon around， to

dig a hole in. To climb into. To allow to fill with water， perhaps

it is raining， perhaps you dig below the watertable； it gushes^{13 through}

the dirt； your bath is drawn^{14 in it are drawn （sputniks stars） maps}

charts with which to constellate your body. Connect the dots.

A little ladle with four handlesa tiny light strobes in the cup， in hot

convulsions of distance， bleats^{15 of temporal ignorance， synapse16 of morse}

but no code， blood but no pulse， the stream but no mouth or source.