Once I made poems of glass, crystal pitchers
For wedding gifts, that sort of thing—very fussy…
That was two hundred years ago
And also perhaps tomorrow— Who knows?
 
Now, though, I try to fill them up: You see,
We’re fucking, making love, I mean, all across America;
She’s on top, humming, dancing some late-seventies
Disco thing, which is hilarious and a little scary,
 
And then (I can write like this, too): the agonized aspect
Of ecstasy familiar from our saints, our porn—
Then a little blood, semen, a taste of iron
On my tongue, stains everywhere, life!
 
Would you have some?
 
Then a hammer comes to shatter the glass.