sweetly going with death; away from
me; plastic bag extending into infinity

cotton sweaters with the American flag, Oxford shirts, and riding boots.

In a land where you will go but from where you will never return,
Little Black Cricket, you’ll follow music inside a mountain 
with the other children. Then the rock will be sealed

“I seen it lots of times, I seen it, just from being on the street when something was going down, I seen kids get killed, a few, my buddy Jules got bucked, this gang he was down with, I mean he wasn’t even down with them when they started beefin with this other gang, but one day, it was hot, I remember it was real hot, 

but which verbs do you employ when it’s clear that you are trying 
to side-eye murder your mother, when you are the chilling moral
of every blazing honor thy Sunday sermon, when you are nothing 

Of all cities, Paris
is now the coldest.

What good are the two

It could happen again. It will.
But this time the geography will be more final,
more certain of the rain and its echo

Stone lips to the unspoken cave;
Fingering the nervous strings, alone,
I crossed that grey sill, raised my head

Up the reputable walks of old established trees
They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes
Of the tall Clock Tower drench their heads in blessing

At White River Roadhouse in the Yukon
A bell rings in the late night:
A lone car on the Alaska highway