These mail-ordered tulips,
shockingly gaudy,
open and close, re-open, re-close,

Those were the polio years. The war
Prospered. In Warm Springs Georgia
Strong-armed Sister Kenny

He stayed up late, staved off sleep, wandered, drank,
as if sleep were a kind of devouring,
as if it would masticate and spit him out at dawn

Auto in sunlight: every trace of gloss
Is dulled a rusting green.
Even the fenders are a dirty chrome

Could I begin by asking what you were thinking of as the gun-
man approached?

Could they not have turned over
or taken more care
or left me as I was

I mime my own story,
the body describes itself.

I have killed the sentinel.
He was my brother
And was duly grateful.

The smashed curb affirms
That there can be no substitute for poetry.

In the basin where the brain was
The twelve paleontologists
Assemble around the banquet table.