It is November.
I am mining crystal geodes
from the dead

dendrites in my head,
working up a full-body
sweat. What I find,

I swallow. What I swallow,
I feed. I am insidious.
I get heavy

scabrous stones
to believe
in inner beauty.

What more
is there to do? Watch
them settle like change

in a fountain just right
of my spleen?
Celebrate the brilliant

blackness of bellies?
I should add that
it’s a Saturday.

Even the sweet-potato
peddler is still
curled around his wife,

smelling of gold
and trying to eat it.
It’s none of my business

so I don’t tell him,
Your wife prefers you
hungry. I don’t say,

Can’t you see,
in the light
she can’t find

pretty anymore? I’m not
the one lying
with a stomach

full of rocks, waiting
for clairvoyance.
I’m the one

with a stomach
full of nerves, whistling
at the ground.