[There is a straw mattress
full of bedbugs under the dead willow,
where the tears of every whore
in town are as open as red hibiscus.
It is the only place left to wait.]
We went our separate ways,
but when I reached the train tracks
I picked up a few rocks to throw
at the racemes of trouble hanging
in the meadow orchard ahead.
My feet, undefined wanderings
of a bite, were in pain
as I suspect they will continue
to be until my time spills over.
I knew there was a mystic
in the ordinary—(à la Rilke) that would carry me
(Oh Orpheus sings! Oh tall tree in the ear!)
through the rest of the day,
like that first cup of coffee,
or a prayer said in the