Winter 2011
The bullet savages
a young man’s jugular
as I salvage
child’s pose and cup
warm tea a few doors
down. In a town
too small to yield a slum,
distinct worlds revolve
in singular space,
and we resolve
to forget other orbits until
lead or Jerusalem
Artichokes pierce us.
The wintered garden, softly
encased, awaits someone
to clear the murky bottles
while Black Oaks bare
their bones. The paper
does not provide
his name, only the location
of his woundedness
and an uncolored shot
of the plot where Daniel’s
berries grow. There are names
I don’t, and names I know.
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