We Are Just Another Damn Song

Up in the rectory
The Virgins are doing snowdances

until the sky opens up salonlike,
staircased and unchaste against the church.
The Lovers wake

ferocious, their nightmares
drip on the pillows: visions of St. Theresa
gorging herself on asphodel.

The Madmen are out. They tell me
that my hands are whimsical
that my face is quality liquor, girlish.

(Far away) Rockaway Beach takes
and takes and keeps on taking. I feel it bodily

as I feel brightly-wrapped Christmas presents.
I wanted handcuffs

but you bought me
a bicycle.