Helicopter in range,
the whump, whump of its rotor blade,
inches from the sunning skyscraper.
Helicopter in range,
the whump, whump of its rotor blade,
inches from the sunning skyscraper.
You kneel at the bed,
With pursed lips,
Like a child listening
At the edge of woods.
Caribou screamed
At truckers from icy roads,
Pining for crossings.
Abel and Lucy sitting in a tree.
F-U-C-K-I-N-G
What happens
In old age
Is that you get
The bullshit
Shaken
Out of you
She never knew she wanted her earlobe
licked until your tongue traced
a line up her auricle, and you
took away the word No
from her with your breath,
Tam. Death. Tragedy.
Four exposed – to squalor, to violence, to home.
Hunger. Shattered glass. A single mattress.
In an apartment of brick,
the midget’s mother’s tube
didn’t get all
Four broadcast channels.
Your whisper in the night, is a hush upon the wind,
your prayer lips mouthing out the words.
You want to know just what it is,
the other side of life.
Near Potomac backwash
Under a concrete overpass,
Construction holds up
A nation, binding structure