Neither our vices nor our virtues
������further the poem
������������������������������������~ Robert Duncan

I. south, facing I-95

����������he lies down with the lambs
������before he�s gone too far, snapped
������the sticky tethers, the tongue of a lizard
������begging to be fed, the strand of spider�s
��������������thread he�s wound
������������������������������around his waist
����������to pull him home to the corner
������where he doesn�t have to watch his back

����������a deceitful force like gluons, the urge
������to return inflates with distance
������������������������to a point
��������������������������������or a snap in the matrix
��������and then he�s loose, forgetful
������swallowed by the chasm in an overcoat

II. west, overlooking the Appalachians

������into an aerie of trash and dustbunnies,
����������bits of colored string checked off
������������the to-do list, he tucks in the nestlings,
������fuzzy heads, but not enough to cover
������the vulnerable knots and bulges
��������������push! a thumb in here, soft as
��������a tangerine����POP!�����close the pink
�����overload of little mouths

������he starts from the living reflection
��������������������of a dream


III. north, hiding from the border patrol

��������head low as a groundhog hole
������he winces through indian paintbrushes
������������and king devil, wary of watery legs blurring
������through wild sedges like visions on Rasta wine

������he�s been found out, making love for the
����������������spins and jizzles, spilling his seed
������without heed for population regeneration,
��������creaming on a fish called wanda �

������the empty flowers rattle like a cough

IV. east, towards the Atlantic

������the boiling surf etches skull music,
��������no melody, a tambura drone � he sucks
������the salty snot of oysters from their shells
������sunrise now, an intimate blush, the neons
������������of delirium blink out from the mother-
��������������������of-pearl insides
����������the poets write their books about

����������delusional noon
������the dog carts bring peanutine and Moxie
��������he eats to build his strength, a cairn
������������������of tumbled stones
������������to pillow his sunburned cheeks

������dark comes on a schooner, bowsprit thrusting
����������proudly, fretting the waves with moonlight
��������he�s pieced together with stars,
����������������only nights
������������������������do the walls tumble