I Write From the Body of a Refrigerated Truck
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filled with the dead// 43rd street// unremarkable funeral home// Jersey plates// bass rattling off the hatchback of an idling homemade race car// Full of boys whose fathers never taught them how to weep// Once upon a rosary bead it was a dream// my fortuneteller predicted this moment// down to the toe tags// My friend turns 57// 62 in plague-years// Says to me yesterday in a harbor burned into my psyche// just wait for the birds// I know the sky is a mass grave// unwilling articulations// The elders of this era// sick with amnesia// The emergent: witnesses to the event// The Rapture has// passed// we entered voting booths// to explain ourselves to an invisible priest// tumors grew// in the tickers// We made a mess with the soapand water// At the warbling massacre the same quiet tarotist sits with her daughter// as the host swings his net not wide// the graveyard sky abides// I ask the usher cryptic inquiries into the bonifides// What is a ghost crab called when it impales itself on its own bubble stick, for example// we need to get this naming out of the way// before the readers, all have caught on fire// Sometimes there’s a placeholder// I climbed Mount Coronavirus and all I got was this Back to the Future ringer// Russian ethanol powers the fridge-on-wheels// the bodies// do not practice singing in harmony// their clothes// incinerated// tracksuits and galoshes// Too many birds for memorandum// A woman calls my wife over to her pew// Her hymnal is bloated// When I reach behind the bar for the fermented trap door// the tender says they tied that one off when the first bullet hit the storefront window// A house spider// throws his dead brother’s wallet into a knapsack// A train wouldn’t be here// But it’s April, so it decides to roll into the obliterated station// isn’t that how it always is
