T.H.I.A.L.H.

in dwarf-like piety the guns mount toward home
the coffeecans desire 18th. century verse
the tabloid is grim with comic strips and
baseball boxscores–
as the Egyptians spit on dogs and the geek
swallows lightbulbs at The Metropolitan Museum of the
Arts; it’s haversack and ballyho,
the punctuation is regular
the flax is battleship sick
and Captain Claypool vomits midnights out
cleanly;
the destination is the shoebox and the prize is
century-old
taffy, and nobody says
that the purple and green animals
out back by the garbage cans will
control which way the steam will
blow;
pictures of Dempsey and Tunney
crawl across the brain like
snails, and ether is the smell of your dead
psyche;
then, this must be it:
taking your shoes off
across sick evenings
allows ventures that would rip the skull like a
lion’s tooth, and Mrs. Carson McCullers is
long dead now
of
drink and
greatness, and the heart still sails like a
boomerang.