Where metaphors become themselves, put
the pedal to the metal, I want to be the one
not riding bitch on the plush-lined vessel’s
back seat, so that I generate (from tension!)
new metaphors also putting their pedal to the metal,
& the car I’m speaking of is Noah’s Ark, I’m the one
that got everything in there— it would have to be,
because she chose to paint kids playing King of the Hill,
because our brains did King of the Hill games back
& forth, years after all the fucking was finished,
because calculation was not foreign to the situation
on her side, so that I carry the all, the everything she is,
rich, recondite, multifariously about intelligence
or retardation, depending on her mood, green eyes
knowing the me past me that she’s counting on,
the Ark having to be a car to stunt it, in her wonted
fashion, perhaps even a jalopy. She knows me past me,
is herself a man, a king, past what was between her legs,
which I thought I found interesting past calculation,
because she set up a game there I’d fall for, & I did—
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