escape plans for the dead 

at the old jailhouse
children climb out from between
the bars. there is a lantern man
telling the same story 
of a prisoner who greased himself 
with butter to escape. 
he ran home, unsure of where else
to go. shivered like a gutted windchime
beneath his own bed.
sometimes the rocks will become
an avalanche & sometimes they will
become kissing stones. the roots 
are the veins of a great angry man.
i can never catch my breath
up the hill. bodies of sleeping bears.
they toss & turn at night 
& make the mushroom dogs furious. 
i exist in opposition
to stillness. 
i have paid money to see a cage
full of hands. inside the old jail
there is a replica of the gallows.
a goat hovers either as a sacrifice 
or a promise. what i want to know
is if the roots play cards at night.
if they make bets on who will
lay down in the basement
& who will kiss the warden's daughter
until she turns into a mourning dove.
goodbyes are best made
of glass. a little portal back
into the fog. let's not forget
our penance. the bears are hungry.
i know what we need to do
to keep them asleep. 
the roots twist. handfuls of peaches.
i know you want 
to cover your eyes too.