Can you remember that first drum, the one with the metal rim & those sticks with their cotton knobs & how you proudly marched around the living room & the freight train that whistled by at precisely four thirty every Tuesday & Julie’s eyes which were alternately blue & green & how she taunted you across the fence & her dog Buckskin who howled into the night & running home to mom with a broken tooth & no one home & blood in your mouth & the long climb to the roof where he was hammering away at his homemade boat & Jeremiah practicing his saxophone & the sun heating the tar to soup & that time Andrea fell through the skylight & had to be stitched quickly & butterflies on the milkweed & the sheriff coming after you with a warrant & everyone staring & pointing their fingers & turning away & how you left town & hitchhiked to Canada & the waitress who thought you were from California & offered her bed & stole the money from your boot & the last day of July when you won sixty on the slots & caught the bus which crashed in Detroit & the war games with live ammo & a jazz band on a flatbed & the B & O which ran all the way home & no one there to meet you except a guy playing bongos on a bench & a small girl asleep in his lap.

I run the river bank through lilies & lavender & rest against the weeping
willow &

remember you speaking of a time in your childhood when there were geese
& ducks & pigeons &

you fed them by hand & the sun cast your shadow long in those days &
when the old man died you left &

came here & fashioned a boat & we met on a Sunday & I swam out to test
your resolve &

you threw me a buoy & reeled me in. It was different then but not today –

when I see your body snared in the willow’s roots / I know there will be no end . . .

Morning doves & the hard striking nails of a Wolverine.
A whistle & the last drops of an early rain.

She’s built a black virgin from foam & plastic & bone & she’s opened its face

Follow the river. Hold close to the fence.
When did we last eat? Monday? Yes. Monday, I think it was Monday.

They’ve cleared the room & left the sheets of hot metal to rust.
They’ve welded a face to the wall & took turns with a razor.

she’s planted a dog’s skull at one breast & a seed pod in its slick vagina

I can see the body curled in the corner.
It’s through the screen I’m looking.

she’s skinned the head of an ox & raised it on wire & wings

As the day grows dark, a crowd begins to gather at the edge of the field.
One has a drum & another the leg of a goat.

Have you seen Hazel with her silver gown her silver turban her silver teeth?
Will you sit at my left & read to me from the golden book?

& she’s split the naked torso of her twin & trimmed its fissures with ink & poison quills

The rain has begun again. Helicopters circling in pairs, a mastiff & a red Ferrari.

First, they were arranged in a line & then one at a time they were led away & after a while no one was left.

After: ‘Nonet 1, 2 & 3’ No Stars Please Music by The Trummerflora Collective

There are days when running is all you know when running is all you will do & into the night running & gulping for air upstairs & down . . .

There are days when the bells are insistent & never stop & there he is humming to himself & all the kids laugh & he stumbles & cries openly

& there’s the dancer with one good leg & her mother who pushes the cart & Andy the clown in his big blue bubble blowing balloons &

there’s the time I met her in the attic & she played the trumpet & made me lie down on a board of nails & walked on my chest &

I remember the heat of that July night when fireflies were everywhere & Rachel held me close & we told stories about wolves & severed hands

& there’s the auto wreck & the sinking ship & a rattler in the basement & a dead dog in the closet & white rats & a can of kerosene & a match & . . .
take a closer look – this iron key – this bag of clothes – our last hour / take this open palm – my cock in your mouth . . .