In the dust where Abraham lives

For Dr. Collington Peacewool

“I wrote a poem on a dog biscuit”
– Galaxie 500, “Fourth of July”

money gutted on a dirt road
telling all of the secrets that it sold
memory is a favored schism of dreams
makes things worse than it seams

pity and memory swashbuckling and dancing
ramifications of parley backyard fencing
steps to avoid pregnancy like the mayor of the body
avoiding the resemblance of a new police eye’d invader

too much trouble for Sarah or fishing books
like Abraham’s gutting and cleaning counter talking
outside by the shed, remote and frowning
where her sons smoke cigarettes with love

the God swollen sheets would visit when he was just 149
starving with the ankle bracelet covering a tattoo
never frightened of the shelf-made reasoning, that Abraham
living to cross sideways in the dark and docile fabrics

shoved into the dryer fighting with the stolen spin cycle
rest Abraham, drink your whiskey bread soldier pants
you were never meant to see this part, where you live
where the forger dies under the terrain of your land’s cry