WHEN YOU WEREN'T A BOY
With pickax handy I swallow the blue pills
and let them clasp my throat, tracing
a line as if it were a finger. And speaking
directly into the mic I'll say what came before
will come again as rain or rage does,
some winds to beat the window with, music
or a song. Fear of motorbikes, the afterlife
a distant blessing, highway construction
remembered fondly the way an evening was,
with time ascending the ladder toward belief
or at least symbol, blue pills, blue rain,
blue hatchback abandoned on a hill.
I find all of this insane.
I plucked my harp and the wild creatures came.
TYPO
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