She never knew one of us from another, so my brothers and I grew up fighting 
Over our mother’s mind
Like sun-colored suitors in a Greek myth. We were willing

In my front yard live three crepe myrtles, crying trees 
We once called them, not the shadiest but soothing
During a break from work in the heat, their cool sweat

Burg, boro, ville, and wood, 
I hate those tiny towns, 
Their obligations. If I needed

Moving across the light, on agitated hips,
She hurries away breadcrusts and grapestones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda

On this day, anno 1966
The thin Scandinavian girl whose fine-nosed
                      white collie sniffs along the shaded walk.

Life is beautiful.             However
The only truly human, American expressions
                           of its staggering rich moments

United at first
ham and cheese fall apart and slip 
             through my trembling hands

Your body is this house,
collapsing into the seasons.

he brought in bags
filled with clicking rings
cut from the tails of arrow-headed rattlers