In a land where you will go but from where you will never return,
Little Black Cricket, you’ll follow music inside a mountain 
with the other children. Then the rock will be sealed

I took the skin of my twin for a jacket,
pulled it along my legs as stockinettes,
pocketed its bones and fat in my side

Biggest fish I will ever see,
men caught you
and hung your death

Cultivating people can be arduous, 
With results as uncertain as weather. 
Try oysters, meerkats, turnips, mice. 

Ate stew, shot a man,
Bandy body spraddled, so full of lead 
Cabron can’t even walk uphill. 

Honest-to-god color, god said, for artists. 
But first, graveyards, to grind the human femur 
in secret, for bone black. And cuttlefish 

The radiation machine
didn’t hum. The lights in the room dimmed.

Rads went through my chest
without a word.

A pity the selfsame vehicle that spirits me away from 
factories of tedium should likewise serve to drag 
me backwards into panic, or that panic should erect 

Who would
                 cast your jaw, after it’s broken?

On stakes, on sticks, one rusted
                 bayonet,
left then right, like someone had