and you don’t want / your daughter learning
to shoot a rifle / with the other kids
who aim at a silhouette / of someone’s son
Little tillers. Ploughs of night-
writhe and gizzard. Eyeless, they grind
To hang from birth
In a window of an old shop
she had to be open
twenty-four/seven
all monikered & mouthfed
you are so infinitely betty
Perhaps it was a trade, a bargain not fully realized,
like the arrowhead accepted by the flesh.
The fastest way to circumnavigate is to fold
the quiet black between stars.
To then put on one’s coat and to walk out the door, alive.
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Madge smiles like a flowerbed, Bill chews on ice cubes.
It gets me thinking of Bigfoot. I like Bigfoot, I like the idea
leaked we skated on towels, spit into each other’s
mouths. There were fruit flies, or gnats,
seems as unlikely as holding an echo firmly under my tongue. The sky,
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he has a pocket watch and a basket of reeds. A factory
here eats starlight and shits fine blocks of steel. Outside,
drinking her milk, eating deep cake where the center piece is entirely frosting. Or glide through
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I park in the poor part of the city
cemetery, where if luck holds you, maybe
and I have to look hard to see that the petals
are made of the most precisely sliced sections of cake.
stepped on it, a man
spit tobacco on it,
the leather tongue on the bag of a young au-pair
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with no stop
lights
just the cross ings
we are looped in it, living in it like the weather
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