Anne the Fig
and only one. Is alive. And
others is half. Alive. Clotted
with love. And blood. What
doesn’t kill you, weakens. Who —
don’t ask the doctor. How. Long.
Brother: In Bed. Wondering:
Is this my last nerve? Is this
vein just POP? Is the cells
circulating? Or not anymore.
Unicycling. One leg working.
One groin netted against
the gravity. Thinner and thin:
red is still the biggest color they
won’t let you wear in Fresno.
Central
I have been so drunk
my heart is frantic for you,
frantic I say. Like the stars
in Fresno, seen, pollution
and all. Biked at two: twenty
am after maybe just one two
many but not quite enough
of anyone because they know
each other and you don’t. Oh
this is harder at forty-nine
than it was at thirty and Van
Ness waits in the dark like
camping, or a park shuttered
against the human. Budgets
and houses and street lights
wait for no man and one woman
stands at that corner, taco pop-
ing teens’ street throws, like con-
stricted trampolines, the edges of light
absolute: my dear I wish you
were here and I wish you liked
the funny way people always find
a living at the dirt side of nowhere.
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