Contents
Title Page
Note to the Reader
Dedication
Epigraph
ONE
What’s in these books that have come to me
A mile outside of Yellowstone
What is silence for
Rage: after the funeral
Our bare brief jeweled guitar
You might have to
What my mother loves is solitaire
Light chores between first and second sleep
Ice recoils tonight from marshes
Meanwhile I am preparing
Some parts of speech are harder to draw
One time I fell down got cut
TWO
At times I want to walk off the set of my body break my name and burn it
Midnight radio from Astoria plays funk
Let me try this clumsy again at dawn
The historical marker is a form of guilt
The condo held the rock star’s body like a puppet
I haven’t ruined my body yet with joy
Whatever I have been doing all my life I am doing now
I’ll try to stop singing
When word comes the emperor of the world has died
No longer a kid I have come to the grave
You were beside me at the start of this
On river road the moon suspends
THREE
When I land and get in the taxi
Outside my apartment
Affixed to upper balconies of the World Bank
I’m in Washington and
Like a die that is only real every sixth throw
Grizzled countenance of morning
I am a child of ghosts
His grin’s upside-down police cruiser
Each friendly encounter is a basement
I write her name on every napkin
Money is a bandage where above the oak
FOUR
My mother is a ferocity on the Hilton Hotel roof
By now the hospital has unfolded
I am an event in my sudden willed loner’s mute drama
Last light of summer glints off the motorcade
The stoned guy from the first floor
How we tear the billboard down is how we tear the house down
John Donne was dean of St. Paul’s
I hear that people are dying in America with the very
It is the reverse of everything
A dying man is almost grown
After the matinee I feel acutely
My name’s in the forest
FIVE
From inside the secondhand store I admire
In the industrial kitchen I take red debris from the dish
In salmon silence of nineteen
Cottonwoods parse their shadows along the river
The grill is wrapped tight against the autumn sprinkler
Above the canal tonight by the willow overhang
These on the other hand are orderly
The old man we pick up in Browning
It was my blanket first and she took it
A train runs late through my arms
Ospreys nest their rising dollars upright
At the western outfitters the clerk
Books by Ed Skoog
Links
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Special Thanks