As I Dined Out . . . .

"You must sit down," says Love,
"and taste my meat."
Beginning at a square of light,
the morning window,
when I lie with rancorous mouth
under the sandwich of the day,
three telephone wires and a sparrow,

beginning because the day begins,
because dreams like sick bees stumble from my eyes,
because a man had more than hands
and hates the ignorance of his room,
I waken and will eat!

This day is meat for me.
To have the moon a plate
I have a body that will die,
sinking below the bed in raveled wings
in the crusts of many bodies.

Driving in the morning at high speed
I lick the curves of the road; in greed
I send motorcycles like insects into fields,
I devour, I eat stones, I starve
not for power among the night stores,

not for power alone. Death takes my legs,
I swim out in shadow,
my bones are pale doors opening
where hedges lunge like sharks,
where the streetlamp turns flowers coral.