in the crush of
early morning fog
in this country of
missing fathers i am
waiting for myself
the dead have
all been born as
birdsong here and the
god of starving dogs
paces my street with a
young girl’s blood
staining his
smile
i let the curtain
fall back quietly
let the light
of the poem flicker
and gutter out
but always a half-beat
too late
the house is on fire
without warning
the baby is awake and
screaming
and all the doors are
locked from the
other side
this is the story i
remember
you telling
the final psalm in the
book of rusted chrome
and i never asked
