I remember four
humps of earth pushing
out from prairie grass
west of the river—
burial mounds,
one following another, a row
of muddy children
and the shadows
fattening behind them.
Of this life, my friend,
she said, it was just a procedure.
I’ve felt it passing
through revolving doors;
everything thereafter
is fragments—each object,
space, lit by half-light,
halved by the turning glass.
At any minute,
I am in motion,
at night, in the sorrowful
architecture of a body.
At any minute,
my mouth greens, fills
with the smell
of torn leaves, blue cheese,
a library teeming
with wet dogs is a memory
of home.