From the Fishouse

from Looking for The Cantos in Texas

Great afro, huge hands, guitarus:
mountains here and there from hardwood

and devil’s dust. You strung other things—
colors thumb-picked from a dragonfly’s

blink. Moons cemented in the sunk of a girl’s
Sunday dreams. Only on Monday. Free-falling

from planes grabbing fistfuls of air must
have done something. Or maybe it was the army

greens and that Band of Gypsies. How else could
you peel the sea with a bell-bottom hootenanny?

Or make a jellyfish and sea star scrap, noses
wide open? Brine and sand, stereophonic time.

Strings sounding like a woman waking up.
Strungs sounding like she still wished for sleep.