AND FOUR

is also, besides a step, a cry, 4, warning

golfers of an errant shot. Unfortunate

telling. A searching and fearless moral

inventory, a poem, is a place to isolate,

hack in stone. 4. Real drunks orpheus

their addiction. Homie misses the ritual,

mostly, passing the horn around a fire.

His tribe’s gotten smaller. The game’s

the game, they say. His student loans

descend, ominously, like frogs from

heaven. Weight won’t wait. In African

myth, growing wings typifies unease.

Look at Homie on the beach picking

shells in dress shoes, wondering why

he chose poetry. Look at Homie siting

on a bed in Monterey Bay, black suit

and tie, intent on fishing the finish

of a bottle, promising to stop drinking

while drinking.

Homie left without leaving the room.