I mean this thing

I want to write and no other

You will not be so clever

as to resurrect the feathered

the tatty wings of a costumed

angel in my dining room

tatty spatial realm

room where I exist and look at things and eat them

and float nine inches above the floor

and no one else need know

and no other poet

will do

The poet will do

what the poet will do and mime

or maim the poet

meme—in fancy

venue or classroom or focus

group the wings of the poet

relax and warm and shed and oracular

shit out the window in a pile by the side of the road

and the commitment of the poet

to engage, subvert, refract, or remand

is safe in my vagina at last where it belongs