I'm writing upside down with the space pen,
listening to the rain.
My wife is writing about the Black Death
and its effects on Art, and asks me
“Where are your pants?”
They are on the floor in front
of our new couch, where I arrange them
to spell out L-O-V-E. A vegetable,
mystic thrill runs through me—
the couch is something's antenna. It bears
good love to us here over the laundromat.
I'm waiting for the Light Beings
to remove my roof.
Our bedroom is lousy with clothes
spelling out greetings if anyone's up there
who can read English.
