The boy in the funhouse mirror swallows stones.
I’m at the beautiful place now.
Tonight, even the dolls unbutton themselves, slip into
the dark seam of their dreams.
Deep in the night’s cave song, martyrs send photos of their bodies.
I’m thinking of us, in the nightclub’s upper room.
This is the story of sons
who sell what remains
to pay the rent.
It was a face out of print. It was a skin called home.
His mother’s gossamer dress. His father’s leather belt.
But tomorrow never comes. It happened to us as boys.
I tried to make it Sunday. I put myself away.
When I write it, it becomes more true. I’m in love
with a boy more body than poet,
more water than language. We all die
HE LIVED ON A CHAIN; HE WAS A GOOD BOY
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over.
Most of my poems are shaped like crows,
so what’s eating you?
When I find a body
in the city shaped like a god
I’ll go glass.