Jeffrey Morgan

Dear Crying Shame—

Several things have happened since you left: The town found its death
without you, buckling gently and piecemeal—buildings easing
into themselves, their soft rot, like old men slouched down
in their chairs. Your absence implied a violence
which gathered like weather.

Kids in the park wouldn’t play; they milled around in packs like architects.
At the crossroads, in the crosshairs, language pushed its luck.
(You could hear it during the riot act, saying fuck.)
Now a bright cry reddens every rain drop
that stops to kiss this town.

When things went to pieces, some of the pieces went missing: screen, aria
phosphorescence, blue, curve, foil, alchemy’¦ For awhile, every sky
was an exploding song. Our song. Then collective memory left
and came back romantic like a rickshaw
or a sharp stick.

Now memory festers under a pile of fancy extras. For example, the moon
is a mnemonic device reminding me of money. It wasn’t always.
Remember how we loved to tie your red scarf to the couch
and lower ourselves down, darkness?

Dear Crying Shame—

Conjugated death, prepositional death: You have to rearrange yourself
in order to see the world living posthumously, as you do,
behind the palmetto: sunset of rust: the steep
curve of subject.

Ditch water where mosquitoes breed.
Glass after glass of burnt earth.

When the super volcano underneath us goes, finally, status epilepticus;
when lava gets us, or carbon dioxide sneaks from lakes and palms
our lungs like coins, the sad hills touching like zombie thighs;
I want to believe this is not a view of the story
from the sky.