In the Chevy-sack, mottled & sharp: lean boy, to the ride.
Did you draw out your
Hoo-Doo literature, the
bone-for-itself?
Remember the riff bone, the one from the
goddess-shank?
& the giraffe frame, the
self-portrait, longing & philosophical—
was that you, in
Low Tucson, hoisting another flame?
Stole it? You did. In your reflex for passion, in your arsonist
lazy fourth eye, the one next to the ear.
We note
your animal laboratory: one treasured police dog leg, sprawled
one parakeet vest, two coyote tracks—to cover up your migrant
tardiness into bone-being. How you raced the tyrants, their feathers
& spelled
forgiveness, then genocide. But the enemy stands
before you. Can you identify? Let’s leave the question
open.
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