local knowledge is to live in a place
and know the place
however barren

and Dear Little Mother do not think
only of yourself your suffering

I must confess to everything.

When you unzip your dress
a thousand insects run for cover,

This year the arsonist burns his own room.
If the lilac blooms, it has its reasons.

Fat Russian novels are sinking
like grandmothers into the snow,

All I am stops here.
My nose is my farthest outpost.

Amarillo is Texas to me.
Houston is an oil derrick dwarfing James Dean.
Dallas is John Kennedy dying.

My breakfast, Tang and Instant Quaker Oats,
I devoured in a rest stop somewhat off the road,

I understand:
for years, perhaps, you have lived
underground. Handling only