| Never in the night
|
| When the knot grows tighter
|
| than fingers can untie,
|
| and all the last half-damned
|
| rivers have gone dry
|
| does the cock crow thrice
|
| until someone is denied…
|
| or the morning comes.
|
| And you wonder, will you
|
| get your shit together?
|
| And what is that?
|
| A leather sofa and a feather in an old fur hat?
|
| A fake tat' lost in a
|
| box of cracker jacks?
|
| Practicing your plane wreck
|
| face in the first-class lav'?
|
| That’s what the ghost of someone’s dad might say.
|
| And when they come calling
|
| I won’t go calm.
|
| There is no palm or divine mitt
|
| with which to hold one’s pit,
|
| or separate the human race
|
| from its environment.
|
| No scattered ashes loosely gather
|
| asking where the fire went. |
| No.
|
| We’re left with half-true psalms
|
| in an indecipherable scrawl,
|
| in some vague extinct language,
|
| ancient ink dull, almost vanished
|
| on some old brittle scroll.
|
| That’s what the ghost of
|
| someone’s dad might say. |