John COTTER

In this one Maxwell Perkins dips his shadow into white ink
while the dust of evening settles
soft as birdsong winces
when you bleed me with a compass needle ­ there I am
chopping trees into horses, puttin' my treasure X
in that there river, paring my fingernails
in famous grave ­

wish you were here ­ we took separate rooms
so at night I could map my REM with a light pen
it always seemed to read
don't touch the dogs STOP they are only props STOP to remind you of home

I'll wear his hands if you'll wear hers
our parking attendant drawled at the scarecar museum
where inside the husks of burnt-out cars
snowflakes miming heartattacks descended
like leaves in a sped-motion film of autumn, Look!
(my fingers flare) but it was summer already
and we were home at last, we
who manage to live our brief lives pitched
at the level of song

the one they play during the credits at the end
where my onscreen lover and I
slide our bodies against one another ­ sadly
the developer fucked this one up
so the sunset flowers explode real slow

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