by Ben Doyle

    The tug¹ on my arm but soon spread

    Perhaps now they could prove me there.

    I've been watching the sky closely & for some time，

    My hands in it， making crude， beautiful doves.

    Sometimes a sprinkler spits

    An arc of silver water over me，

    Hissing²， bisecting. Half of a thing

    As much of a thing as ever can be.

    If they have to water it， it's not a real field.

    It's a yard， connected to a white building.

    Once， I was inside a building.

    Tooth， your shadow the color of the hour.

    There was a smell of some spice，

    I don't know what it was called.

    I wanted to take a bath， change my gravity；

    Feel my skin loose & leave a ring.

    The man said they only had shower stalls.

    Those were the days everyone lived

    In fear of a fierce spouse³，

    Paddling through the steam，

    Something in her hand：

    Hair-dryer， toaster， leaf-blower，

    Plugged-in & zinging.

    And you there， stewing⁴ in your own

    Sauce， whistling an oldie.

    Deaf by dawn & if dawn comes

    Day may break——bellowing

    Below thing， be low， sing，

    Slinging⁵ blows， blowing slang

    Songs， bowing. Bring out the big

    Amp， vinyl torn， plywood exposed，

    I think the tubes are ready， sir，

    The dew I flicked⁶ on them leapt & left

    Steelsleet， the weather from the recycle tower

    Less yellow as it lowers， a film of its tinting⁷

    The buildings， tinning the yards with first light.

    I've seen the hours of train from above on the bridge，

    Each car brimmed with rusty⁸ blades， broken bayonets，

    Naked bent⁹ frames of things. . . .I can't tell. . . .

    Can you smell the crimson¹⁰？ And the cars behind me，

    Metal mixed at the proper ratio， careen dying to be there，

    Gasoline hemorrhaging， pistons¹¹ punching themselves out.

    The barge¹² gravid with metal took its miles to pass as I stood

    On the bank not saluting¹³， thinking now， now what am I going to do.

    The first blast of the opening ore-oven decays all decay.

    The scraps¹⁴ shine. The smelting¹⁵ starts seamless， top down， bottom up.

    Hollowing. Hello， thing. Hell， lathing¹⁶. Howlingly singing holes.

    So what are you going to be？

    A ghost.

    I stole a white sheet from a line.

    Leaves were stuck to it， I'll

    Punch some holes in it， I'll

    Jump from the balconies

    Of bleached buildings

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