The Glass Instrument

Hung lopsided,

hangs undecided.

Bloated and benevolent,

the snow reflects it up

and throws it down.

Winter reigns

when birds gulp rain

and glut on pumpkin seeds.

I heard that a killer fish

greyed and pale and stinking

lies beneath this grass

to satisfy hungry tongues.

But you, fair skinned and strong boned,

to whom auroras

of pink and hummingbird green

become the hiss-fuzz of television screens

before the gaping mouths

of a billion onlookers.

You, with the baroque indulgence

of your mouth

and holes in your English,

become a riddle.

And I, alone, cold and hungry

stand beneath a hip-bone moon.