From the Fishouse

Rest now. It was never real.
The factories are nothing more

than the mouths of horns. You dreamed
the man in the doorway. The slap

of his belt is an upright
bass. And what you took to be your

brother hanging in the cellar
is just a lady dancing. Let her

sway. The miners passing don’t know
your name, and they themselves

are just rhythm. Ohio,
some fool left staring at the bar.