Siren’s Song Axes

The plow scouring saints
disinfect the skirts of the holy trailer
work hats on your father’s head, be advised
the rooms are moving with the sinner
the vacuum and hay like preamble stills
now in Kentucky jails for drunk and disorderly
forever resting like a marksman now still
someone get this grave off of him
tear the earth off this bone and wig
the giants and calling his name to the scratch
where the comfort land throws axes at his son
no more roman cathedrals sing
next to sleeping summer stones
now, grandpa, start breathing smoke again
you think we did not know that time your body
escaped the hospital and was arrested
in a Walmart parking lot trying to avoid
a breathalyzer or blood test having crashed
the truck again, oh, mr. nascar, be my father
where the police sirens ignore you throwing
an axe at your son and repeating his childhood map