It’s summer here so soda pop and blue
jeans in the trees. I am peeling
my sunburn on a bus bound for Saratoga
Springs where I will lob my father’s
ashes on the line where the racehorses
finish one at a time, and as they do,
the mist of a million particles
of ash in the air, all likeness will disappear
between us. I had built a boundary
out of skin where I sat quietly
until blood was the only moving
thing on a map of where we are.
On the dirt track, horses fill
their lungs in the sun and urge on.
When a losing horse dips
its head to greet me, his black whiskers
tickle the flesh of my neck. Why
do all hearted creatures stink?
I am asked by my brother’s
youngest child, Is horse your favorite
or least favorite mammal? I say
don’t beg the Lord if the sky is
a gray roof beneath which
you have waited all day to see
gallop something graceful, swift.
If You Must Hide Yourself From Love
It is important to face the rear of the train as it leaves the republic. Not that all departing is yearning. First love is a factory. We sleep in a bed that had once been a tree. Nothing is forgot. Yet facts, over time, lose their charm, warned a dying Plato. You have to isolate the lies you love. Are we any less photorealistic? I spot in someone's Face- book sonogram a tiny dictum full of syllogisms. One says: all kisses come down to a hole in the skull, toothpaste and gin; therefore your eyes are bull, your mouth is a goal.