It’s better to have the bleeding beer cans plowed
Against a brick wall, where they can be crushed,
And their skeletons, parched in the sun, are reduced
To the speck of dust that is each skull.
The mortar holds the addiction together.
Steam rises from a ribcage.
Roof scalp ripped off by a hurricane hand
And a face like a hatchet.
The rain gets through the rafters, all the way
To the dirt floor of the bedroom belly. There the blue
Of the moon has formed a pool, stretching
From California to Maine. Still, nothing gets past
The wall. The desert has cracked open addiction
To sprawl, but I can see better without my caskets.
All of the openings are filled. Nothing escapes. Airtight,
The bodies cannot be seen from the outside.
