Sunday, September 4, 2011

What You (should know)






When I get there the kids are smoking (I don’t



inhale). Two hits before they’re talking like you




when you were sober (I’m reading your book


about New York horses that dream




of flying from their carousel). Later the cops nail


our eyes for being too open (My veins burst like weeds




around the handcuffs). The officer takes


our names, feeds us bologna



sandwiches(I will always smell



horse meat). When I come back



our mom’s taking pills-—or is it candy?





(I never ended a sentence



with a question mark) My pupils fall on the table, twin marbles











she swallows whole ( I’m afraid of leaving her


with empty boxes). I can’t sleep





because one eye won’t close. Sand blows


in our bedroom. Your forest grows in a distant phone booth.






At the station they offered me


one call (you should know it was you).








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