print versionDIANE SEUSS
We fear the undulant,
the uterine wave, the forlorn sway
of ships leaving harbor
and the rippling uncut hair of graves.
We look back at the swells and drifts
of curls. Whose curls? God’s.
Sky-wide, luxuriant as the mane
of a buffalo. Father’s, spread out
like a girl’s bouquet on his deathbed
pillow. Or the indigo whorls
of a deific junkie alone in a shadowy
room, swooning into the arms
of euphoric death, needle
still twanging in the vein
like the fletching at the base
of an arrow. I fear the flickering
of film school movies on the cave
wall. There I am, bad actress
wearing salt-white gloves,
playing a girl who fears undulant
beauty, undulant love. 
Is there still a Betty in this new life?
It Seems Like a Poem Should Smile Wide, with Rotten Teeth
We fear the undulant,