Even the Far-Out Songs

Emily’s drunkon three-dollar wine.Backbones crookedagain, her towerof fists, so she has to lieflat on the floor, saysI could spendten yearsin someone’s lapthem smoothingmy hairthem sayingI love you, you’reso pretty, and stillit wouldn’t be enough.

This Maybelongs to the tentcaterpillars

furred, dropping.They ridethe shirts of bicyclistsaround Lake of the Isles.Clump on sidewalksorgies of appetite.Their markings lurelike stained glass.As kids, we pettheir blue so carefullybefore sentencingcoffee-cans fullto Mom’s yard fire.

Emily, racing strangerson Highway 94, sings the new favorite.Listen to the words,a man falling backwardin snow. She singsher father’s nameMichael.Heart attack on Valentine’sis a hard act to followthough her husband’s hurryto leave weeks lateroffered no deference.Blew the spotlight.

And music still shows uplike lettersfrom heaven the thiefto this worst year.When Emily singseven the far-outsongs turnabout her all along.

Here I go in 4th grade.Thriftshop comet shirtshedding glitteron yellow grass.Emily’s Frankensteinknee caked with mud.She dug up a bluerhinestone for menear that old fence.See, it used to sparkleour secret deep, deepunder the thaw.

Little strangersrun the schoolyardnow. Dirt stormstaking their turnbeing kids. We don’tget to be storms anymore. We forgetburied treasure.

Survivingtent caterpillarserupt into ochremoths, at lastmake pilgrimageto the top of the Foshaywhere approximately900 bulbswait to singetheir wings.No one noticesunless they are fromsomeplace else.

Loversrenting a roomin the W Hotelpretend a moreglamorous city.Mistake mothsfor shooting starsfor the rumorof still one more snow.

I search the alleywaybehind Emily’sstarting-over-again-again apartment,countingwhat the basswoodsurrendered, mapleleaves eaten uptell her, What ifhunger startsa new picture?

This leaf, a cuppinglike your facepaint moon. Here, a whale’s eye.

This one, barely a netto puzzle sunlight

not too wrecked

to get picked up.