away like magic marker
ink in the rain before
it’s too late, before she stays in cities like Madison or
Oshkosh—watch out in Minneapolis, in Green Bay

Stoned on the lips of men with
stranger verbs, with nouns like
Dude and, Alike, dreaming from a bridge
a poet could jump from, 16 arms
around her, brandy by dawn. If I stay

two more days I stay she whispers to
the moon licking the inside of her
damp thighs floating, belly eaten
by stars over the fox river south.
Under her the ice shoves cold

ink in those men’s throats. Winnebago,
Menona. Listen, women like this eat
men and spit the pits out to make their
own dreams. (she used to dream skin
as the first and last poem) Now the

magic marker blond men dissolve,
yellow cornfields they lie down in swallow
them. They melt like snow women. Now
this one is making them into poems that are flesh