Like Emily Dickinson

I love poetry slipping through the spindles of happenstance, its em dashery like the closed eye of a winking man used as a record needle.

I love my suede kicks when the laces undo like the best laid plans. & when I crouch to tie those boys up, I love savoring the shy glory

of my wife’s skirted knee. The stitched hem branching like the feather stems in a blue boa she would never wear. The first feather: America,

home of lovers & EPMD breaking car speakers like curfews someplace in Indiana where I loved summer, the dash from one hoop to the other,

a stray kitten chewing a moth in the bleachers, somebody’s cassette tape slowing in a tangle.