Peter Minter


Sweet light, trust in whom

     you enter, eat thoughts' imagination

out of pain, delicate signature

     serifs bleak calligraphy,

ruination silent, sometimes moving.

     Coolidge sings to think

I prune my eyes with the bramble

      under hand, just like that.

Words float by me, fired up

     in ink. Night herons multiply

black & white manufactures

     but in vain, feathers stuck

in lukewarm skin, their world

     in no need of me, just less in fact.


Black Star

I talk and talk

     of eyes of Mallarme, yellow halos

calculus in sand, your eyes

     supine after sex.

Ink bursts white

     where my lips kiss your eyes

of allegory, desolate thrill

     de ma nudite, black

blossoms in your thighs.

     Blame nothing, troubled blind,

float above the thawing earth

     & lick me straight, darling breath.

My teeth are dead,

     satin eyes of Mallarme.


Fishin' with the Bonny

You have cum in your hair & your dick

      is hanging out

starts up as they come on the bite,

     an answer to poverty

flowing from the wheelhouse speakers,

     more brief nobody

placed in your pocket o' verses,

     your endless series of questions.

Fresh kills flap overhead,

     drying already as we sit, eat, love

together under gaslight. Stowaway bugs.

     The sea's lateral abyss.

Wealth is a bloody vessel born to lose

     the more they love in store.