“Jean Cocteau,” I scream into the phone,
“You are a horrible husband.”
I wander into his home, on film,
(again in a movie house)
& each wall is an unheard forest of
fertile mirrors, there are cupboards
of midnight, & prairie mice upon
the electric grass floors cross themselves
before the crush of a cycle boy’s boot.

The ones who strangle all the
little ones, the ones who walk
upside down under ice floes,
come to Jean’s house in Detroit,
distilled yet untamed; minnows &
mystery bachelorettes washing ashore.



Photo By: kirikiri