I marvel at his toes, how they hook into squaresof wire—a wasted deftness, going nowhere.He darts—one cornerto another—a mind racing between two solutions, both wrong.When I chase him to a stop under a table, I see the cherry pit of his heart trying to beat its way out of its cage.Who hasn’t looked upat something …
I come with the bones of my dead stacked like firewood in my arms,three snow buffalo I yoke to a lamppost,and ice in my goatee. You and your room are barely there, wisp of wallpaper curling from a missing baseboard.The world has turned past your drunkards and harlots. I remember vaguely Brodsky’s rebuketo those American …