The universe demotes me, yet again, to coin-operated laundry, and each night, when everyone is sleeping, our tongues all migrateone mouth to the left. The tongue in your mouth, now, is not the one you started out with. Your tongueis half a world away. None of my dead, either,have ever been interested in coming back. Plastic cupsdrift into my yardfrom the fraternity house across the street. Brothers, I’ve been lookingfor someone to hand my bodyover to, so that the dirtwill not page through it. Rib bones like lines, clouds like accordions, and soon enough the rain dropping like choir members. What can I say? What could be said. The church was always so hot. Tonguecome back, come backfor a little bit longer. I’ve only got the one death to my name, one deathand I’m not going to ruin it.
