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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