This is the land of the baddest boats.
Brother we are legion here. This is the land
of graveyard shifts, where jackhammers
dance till knees crack. Brother Ellen
is a quiet girl, her tonsils sore, her lips
in constant quiver and I can’t yet tell
the way she loves me or might not.
I’m a sad crow these days.
My heart is my head and my head
a balloon filled with burnt trees.
Broken leaves, takes her keys
to where skaters graffiti
all the white dogs and windows spill
scales played by children. And
Brother she ain’t comin’ back.
We are terminal here. In the land
of bone stutter sutured moon,
revival moon, floating bush
of bathing mother moon, middle
America where shoulders go
to be torn apart moon, Brother
the days are like this here.