Amsterdam is in a fog. Everything swallowed alive.
At night that haze eating light swells swaggering
upon spheres of space, churns all cement and graffitied walls
into their gradients, black. Out like first photographs
on antimonied sheets, the kind beams embed
in the scratches over an eye. See that grid of points
out over the tracks? Once they were windows. Now bulbs of
shivering grey pull each soul an inch out her body
every voice carried further in acid and water. I walk this street. "Pervert! Whatever,"
some passerby minnow cries. Does he know? How often I think
of eating; of you; of eating him; it eating me; your art; a pit;
a hemp purse; unripe quince. Before my birth: "Man, am I tired
of not being eaten." That's what you said too, then you gathered
your red fibers and cooked up sinewy vessels; you pressed the glow out of you
like a penny in the night sky. You made meat-paint of cherries; that's what you did,
then zygote, art, body, like produce—alive. Now you go swim in this night.