They will bury me in the red robe don't you know it.

It was your red robe for smoking
cigarettes

                                                                                                     on the stone patio,

            Saturday mornings                      with Nespresso and milk.

You must be brave when you tell me. That you have put a strange flesh inside you. If you turn your eyes, left to right a barn owl will die. If you move them right to left a child will go hungry. And when you say only the truth, then my dear, my stomach will eat itself alive, and my brain will start forgetting stories right there.

I see a photo one hundred years old of men stalking foxes in the snow and I feel a sudden death. A sour breath from a sour mouth. A dry skin hand covers a very bad dry cough. I am tearing up in the picture of wind and scorn and blue winter skies. It can be so heavy I have to sit. I go to a couch, three extra feet long, for my legs to not be stuck in the groove, or I find a chair with an ottoman. I need to be supine. Twenty nine is no year to wander. The dingos play at night, and you have taken up new flesh. I have everything to say now, and something will happen too. Still I am waiting with my eyes down and my feet up. Still.