In my hat I sit
in my cellar
waiting

 The enemy’s late

Those photographs
of Brezhnev’s death, of Brezhnev’s corpse in state: the
forced
lilies stuffing his coffin, the million mourners in their

threadbare Kremlin.

I told you the words to it oriole.
Now when an ear come

say it right.

Kiss the mother 
that needs to become 
that needs to need 
grounding 

I’m going to make a poem out of nothing.

Having worn my camouflage for leisure

I am William, who by nature needs to chant     triste now, I’ll make
     this song from it   

In my experience—waking

life—nothing had readied me for such an arrival.

They say that when a goose flies south it holds a twig in its beak to keep from making a sound the hunters might hear.

I had an accident but lived in elegance
on methamphetamines and small stacks
of Black Beauty paperbacks