Back when
there was
a pigeon feather
and it floated
it was a different
pace than I was
when the piano
was waiting
for the time
in my room
which was
a rabbit father
late again
but he would
drop me by
the back door
and me
the climber
that I was
would reach
for the next
branch with
blood pricks
staining the bark
but I was only
bitten once
when he didn’t
know who I was.
Like the time
I stained
my pants
and we drove
a stranger home
he sat next
to my pants
the heat
making
it waft and yet
that same
way they
held me
in Madrid
they killed
a bull with their
eyes and teeth
the jeering
but the bull
was me
and you all
knew it.
There is
all manner
of what
is the kind
of tweed that
professes
that strangeness
is an open form
that the park
is a monument
to mesc
and weed
and my square
college.
They didn’t
follow me
up the stair
to the back
or my back
because the lift
was busted
and I thought
Buster Brown
I must have
because
I never knew
busted
was broken.
Once I ate
the way
the piano keys
bumped me
forward
and spilled
it all
you looked
and wiped
my chin
because you
saw a feather
there.
