God is too far from God
— Simone Weil
The eavestroughs are plugged
by a corpse the size of a human
kidney; there since spring, pecked at,
and withering. The chimney isn’t plumb.
Under scaling shingles a man’s brooding
like a hungry pike bellying
the sand bottom, a tape loop
resounding in his shovel-shaped
head — lurekillitlure
killitlure —
A cut in pay and his son never speaks
but that’s not it;
tonight his abdomen’s hooked, something
wants to draw him out, out of his usual
weeds and sunk willow lair.
Perhaps east side, neon, those faceless
lurking, or just down the park where
rough kids with caved chests
and Jets caps divvy up Dad’s morphine.
A tick and ring race one another
through the corridors of air vent —
four walls speak louder than family.
When stationed at its edge, one can
articulate space;
particular,
minimal, and dark,
gazing backward to lamplit windows
or a torchlit procession, replete
with march songs and effigies.