echo maker

i love to cull mirrors where
there aren't any. an echo is not
a voice but the return. at this stage
of capitalism, everything is an echo
in horror & in glory. 
the street an echo of the wagon road
& the wagon road the echo 
of the foot path & the foot path 
the echo of the deer trails like veins
still through the mountains. each time
a story is told it changes. gains beetles
& loses the moon. drop shipping halos.
i see an ad for a house that comes
in a cookie tin. a lover the shape of a cloud. 
we run until the package driver 
tracks us down to steal our lungs.
there are echos in my organs & echoes
in the garden boxes my father prepares
for spring. still the feathers from the old corn.
an echo is always about direction. the air
reminding us, "we have all been here before."
i see echoes of the worst history 
in this country always. we live in a land
ripe with echoes. an echo went left unheard 
has no choice but to beat the ground
like a gong. it is getting worse. the rain
tastes like legs. when i open the mail
i expect arsenic. i expect a letter that states
i am no longer a creature, just an echo 
of a desire we all have but only some swallow.
my car, the a horse echo towards a road
thick & endless. the ocean somewhere
an echo of the gill times. i wonder if it is us
who are responsible for the echoes or if 
they are an element like earth or fire or water.
if i am the echo maker in sheep's clothing. 
they sell knock-off fingernails at the mall kiosk
a letter in the mail claims i could find god. 
i lay in the bath & sing 
so that my voice echoes all around me.
let the stars knock on the window all night.