I’m going to write Let Me Out
with my eyes on the window.
The engine’s got arthritis and gabs,
her clinging mechanics resist the cold
and ladders go up to rooftops. Things
are still repaired along the way.
Look, a fortune tellers turban in the tree
where the hawk yells. Shop windows
leer after me thinking I’m a pussy,
and I’m still in the car treasuring
plague. Last night someone’s cows
got out. 43 were struck on the four lane
blood like wing-splats and I write
a letter that will never get sent. Wires
dangle from the passing dirigible
because nothing is immune
to rot. There is no mercy in the month
of poems. You burned and there
was nothing left. Shadows and streets
and driving like crazy because
urgency made it to old age where her
genitals are sponged to keep them
from cracking open because no one
knows what will fall out.
Blue disc tires spinning like ice,
tractor trailers to the underworld,
windowless girls dancing in naked
rooms, spinning until they are powder.
Some cows are only dented, the others
are corralled by the angel of death.