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Index
Cover Title Page Note to the Reader Dedication Epigraph Contents 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 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 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 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 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 About the Author Books by Ed Skoog Acknowledgments Copyright Special Thanks
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