The Jane Sonnet

[2]

Dusty hands & two medium cans of Steel Reserve

Serve this need to steel myself against the nothing

That used to be a shelf, a hedge, anything for slumming.

Conserve & jar you up, where art. Since August three

You’ve been penultimate; quit tacking to the walls un-

Bleached briefs & legal notations. The fence is fuller

Than the bush, being lost still in France. My pants

Don’t fit & it’s all because of you & your self-assured

Fuck-you sashes. If G-d were only five foot four & ravishing

More converts would lash them own selves silly, foe.

The invitation to the party is an open field, the flattening

Of an arc, a place where narrative terminates upon the ghost

Whose head sticks awkward from beneath the corduroy dress.

This mess no longer appeals. Your knees are not the answer.