Odd shard, the moon.
Last call.
He lugs his iron
head through the
brass-clanging
days.
The dull trash-can
gong of winter, a throbbing
that starts in his
fillings and swells clear up
straining
against the black
cap of his
underskull.
Snow swept, dead silence,
dead Saturday folding
into Sunday morning.
What is fog and what is
what he feels?
Why are you possessed of such
a thirst while others
walk upright and
clean? Drawn to three
a.m., drifting
the dark roads
beyond the last
lights of the
Hy Vee.
The night behind him
a roller coaster,
a teeth breaker,
an empty bag,
a broken broom
stick.
His mother sleeping,
or awake, her head
full of her own
confusion, his broken
promise.
He can’t see her
crouched
in her old robe,
folded hands asking
once more for no’s
overthrow. Respite: her
one boy asleep
in his own bed,
in dreams,
one man sleeping
like all the
others, not
clipped and limping
along the roads
outside of town,
his blood running
with black bulls
and head roaring
with mineral spirits
and automobile primer,
his face
a shimmering mask of
silver from the
bridge of his nose
to his chin.
Not a howling ghost
broken by boots
and broomsticks
and bones,
stripped
of the last sixteen
dollars in his
pockets and bound
with rope.
A trail in the
snow led back
into the darkness
behind an
abandoned
farmhouse.
They dragged him back there by his heels.
There was an old well
there, and they
stuffed him
in the well.
He showed his broken
teeth to the moon,
and it sat calmly
upon his silver mask.
Snow swept,
dead silence,
dead Saturday
folding silently
into Sunday
morning.
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