I think "I won't be like the penitent
              mystic who waits for an egg in the arms of a
              beast' Coo
              if you're up in the world like a baby
              that you were a baby
              were crying, that praying hands
              hold me down light in dark corners
              they paint the bright walls as to cover my pen.
              I have traded my gun for a butterfly net
              it’s a deep adamantine pixel hue
              staging each atom
              en route to its ‘probable flesh’
              as a faux-larval dike like a hummingbird sac
              where the beak damns the hole as a pen
              keeps the flood of the empty page
              stalled in committee.
              Get off of one knee
              between embryonic ill-health & the no sound of waiting
              a bridal veil lifts on your own
              several faces of wed to the poem sheer bliss
              still something wanting I guess I could no more get down with tyrannical joy
              than I could with the less merry tyrannies
              surplus receptions & sun warmed champagne.
              Can I handle the egg what kind of egg is it
              O the poem not yet wanting being kind as I would handle
              the fingers of saints?
              I like the feel of their knuckles
              the bone touching bone deep inside
              somewhere god's fontanel  
              is as hard as their hand's are in mine--the butterfly
              goes to the hummingbird feeder
              is dumb & not nimble
              it thinks that it is.