The Tradewinds say me
like a word. Oaks,
they know my lurk.
Hardy larkspur, faintly blue,
we speak frankly
of poison.

Largo wood rat
spotted bobcat, we’re three
afraid of hunger
and all go fever
at throngs.

Hovers the vulture
speck high, as I
thrumming the strings
of the sun. Yet parts
of me and the musty rock
have never known
the light,

where like the redfin pike
so deep we swim
for silence.
The Fall Of ’51
Any of you remember
mean boys burning
to bone and ash in boozy
alleys? The flash,

the air’s flush, the flesh
and fur that does the senses
awful cautery.

I do. Remember it.
A shortcut taken
behind the old apothecary
behind Orlowski’s bar. A
          hopscotch home.

Hooks me. the final cry before the furnace.
Hooks me. the smell of small sicknesses.

Tinder of time. Today I see
a man, stretched across a davenport, quiet
autumn day, sudden feels a shudder, an utter
smoky chill, at the smell of burning