anti-aubade for a kutztown 

i'm too cold to be a horse
& not humid / sticky enough 
to be a soccer field. 
all day buggies parade 
back & forth to a tiny graveyard.
the barn only has one side
& that side looms to crush 
an unsuspecting hoof. i'm not
a disciple of the winter field 
but i know it well enough to 
chart its characteristics:
crooked stalks & a scare crow
with the likeness of a boy 
i used to sleep with. the word 
"home" has recently turned
into a cloud-writing. stares down
from above & laughs. houses 
bloom like cows & chew on 
electric wires. often i try 
to walk myself into existence
as if my legs might trapzee 
horizon & horror. as if i might
bring forth a new town from 
beneath the bones of the old. 
young & naive i used to promise
never to return to my dirt.
over turned & shook out my shoes.
i used to sweat off apple trees
& stairwells. they always find me.
tunnel through vein & here i am
at a funeral for horses. who 
is going to carry me when 
the gravel is not enough to hold
car wheels & cake plates? 
i brother with the treacherous
side-of-road slivers. everything
is thinner than it should be. 
mailbox wilts with voices 
in her head. no one is listening
so i talk into a future flower.
cup my hands. telephone the fire house
& let them know a hex sign 
in burning where the sun should be.
the clock tower slower looses 
all its hours until it's only
noon ever hour. or midnight
depending on who you ask. 
i meander to the edge where
a crease frills like lace. caress
the boundary & tell myself
i'm leaving very soon. 

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