From the Fishouse

The moon a shallow sail and night,
a smooth timbered sea—waters encourage
day birds to sweet spring sleep—rest
from a day of feeding.

Big rigs, cars and trucks on the highway—clear
with the pines now cut— splits in the land
open silence,
exposed.

The live-trap is set—freezer-burnt
sausage baits the tom who holed
my not-so-brave cats—
I should hear the gate slam.

Down Seals Street another fight—words
arc and pull me from reading,
the woman screams get your ass out out.
A blistered canvas.

Four children live in the house
of terrible words with no running water,
tick covered dogs cocaine,
a mama who turns a fuck for milk and smokes

and lifts stones.

Tonight is music. My dog, tick-free
an apple-belly. A glass of red wine.
Shots of darkness tie me to the surround
this home this night
I cannot change.