There’s a fly combing its furry legs &
just below the window a mannequin with hard white tits lifts her head
to speak.
There’s Public Parking in black & gold & the reflected
vision of a lamp
in the soft lap of a naked dancer. & now
a wave crests above the man with his back to the room / above a dog asleep
under his chin & the doctor
loads morphine & mucous & a rubber tube filled with grease &
a guitarist strikes the wrong cord &
you’ve come from the mountain to refill your cartridge casings &
stop for a bottle & the familiar stroke from a tired Bob . . . Bob
whose brother sits with his back to the room contemplates a run for the
border & a night with Elizabeth &
he reminisces: an afternoon in Tokyo with a Siberian husky & Joyce
who held the mirror & brought sushi . . . that afternoon in Muskegon:
a bride & a quick twist behind the barn . . . & it’s here
the man with his back to the room turns & knows
you’re always alone with your own memories & sees your thick
tongue & blood on your hands.
