a good many of our dead return
in the distance clouds travel in a year...
the cycle of a cloud-year, not mock belonging
to the land, like my believing
I've come home to stay.
under hard work
that makes me lucky, while the billowing dead
the Lake, pedal, burst, and conflate.
I do not think the clouds will empty to earth
all their light before I leave this town again.
against the old brewery and the light surrounds
us not from the sun, but clouds. My brazen
brain is related to the old grandfolks
who once lived up the street.
denies the clean shelter of human sense.
clouds and sunset umbrage, how they filter
the light and where is the glint but ribbons
of old trolley tracks embedded in the road?
On the old brewery hill once the streetcar
bent the corner around.
in clouds...or spiders in cobwebs?
yawns and his mouth is a picture
of our hearts; touch him where he's not mangy
and hear the inflated leap of a "snake dance."
clouds, anabiosis that rinses
the angry chores from the river, it frees
me so I can ask what it does foretell.
haul poison silt locked to the dam by generations
of papermaking. The dam is deconstructed now
in the future the river will rectify
the spillway, the burble gurgle river replace
hurdy gurdy dam.
(under clouds today) the river is
redirected and the rain loosens
its most symmetrical hard work while
cranks his crazy songs to the catfish;
each monster pulled from the water he calls
the daddy, the mommy, the baby and when the torque
of his cheap aluminum rod exceeds certainty, the metal
snaps and gouges his hand
he calls the fish "granddaddy."
fisherman speaks a lot of new immigrant
language then, pets the cat I followed
to the river; he strokes the fur with a bloody hand.
something aching" he explains the cat to me
in English while he feeds
the namesake guts to him.
of garbage rises from the offal of the river
fish; the dead constantly empty light to earth.
O in what
vernacular, and what