Who would miss it if it wasn’t gone?
The explicit funk: 8000 days of raw family.
Sun-soaked confetti, dander;
The very skin
Of loss. Separate men
In translation: Their malt language
Derived from too much proof–
The unintelligible history of blood.
Un-cooked Easter eggs, lost teeth, vomit;
The lemon scent of absence. Dwindling
Cat bones in a dank basement,
Some dark quality of hunger,
The book of dust: Hundred-year Bible,
Closed, with the cold coming through
Yellow life-times. A burlap curtain.
Also closed: Mama,
The blown art of cigarillos,
A nicotine chapel; Her breath stain
Of fried perfume and undisputed smoke.
Precious chaos, touch of kin;
Volume. Lung & loin
The combined fragrance–
Wall-to-wall pulpits. Spill.