it’s January
in my abandoned coat
walking late at night
past the White House
a big piece of gravel
the past can drive itself to work
history although it may be small
is a bee trapped in a car
my advice is give yourself freely to rage
until your face suns in the blast of either
the furnace my grandfather stokes
or the revolver’s answer
I become a man looking for work
a pilot looking for any onrushing place to land