on the cover
of the new york time magazine

there is a man
standing

in the middle
of a crowded new york city bus

he is wearing
a perfect grey pinstripe suit

and a gorilla mask
one hand

holds the new york times
the other

holds a hand strap
my grandmother

upon seeing the photograph
for the first time

knows those hands
to be the hands

of her son

my grandfather
went inside

to get more bullets
in a voice

not meant
for me to hear

he said
to my grandmother

he doesn’t have the eye
his brother has

with shaking hands
with my final bullet

i put a hole
clean through the head

of lincoln

more
is the occasion

than not
but less than before

washed up on the shore
relics of shells

broken sea bells
that crescent the strand

cloudy brown or green or white
that gentle rub of decay

or whatever might
seek display

jeweling the sand
i keep to myself

jarred away
on a shelf

drunkclumsy
with the drop

of it
tap past

to gather
dulling

in the doorway
god only knows

what
un


               d            e             f           e           at           e           d
               d            e                                      at                                     h


does
with so many seams

breaking brittle by
and the sky

blue sky

in the fields
the hay

has been cut
and dried

the final sunflowers list
and fade

to the west
a line

of aspen trees
sigh

at the touch
of october light

two crows
call out

and hold their own
against the hawk

how will you journey
out of this life?

how will you find
that brief dark door?

what will your music
sound like?