they couldn't locate their fingertips the
dehydrated hands
the xylem & phloem cracked skin's surfacing through they
clutched shovels—
& maybe this was the answer— &
stove-pipe hats their crowns ripped up the geese
flew out these chimneys
(grandmama's feathers scattered a mortal cough
rousted— was this my childhood— the
trout à tort et à travers
lacustrine etc air streaked the— why
wicked birds roosted in a
bride's eyes— a wish dizzier was what it was
than a newspaper hat aswirl in the well's
pneumonia— first there was the air
then there was sky too higher—
what comes next
(quartz river with its grave robbers & seamed eyes'
zwitterig red trees— a novena
candle smoldered jaune in that
kitchen window (on
young trees the bark is smooth &
gray-brown becoming scaly
& furrowed with maturity— (my
grandmama's
lace schrecklich curtains waving— what nerve—
inflamed like a hangnail hands burned
campfires— they tried I said
to loiter like toughs smoking
bones— trout streaked
silver shovels shoveling rivers was this
my childhood (hands
splintering grasping the spoon o the
bird's nest soup
(no one sleeps
no one sleeps at last
except grandmama she's the house asleep
in the trees— muy ansiosos— a roost
where is this the Black Forest