And this shall be divided. For her
a tine to clip the bloody twine
that bound our meat, tine to pierce

The last toddler's howls evanesce like ash
on a breeze, the parking lot empties of cars.
A purple shock of cotton candy rots

The maestro, in his Paris hotel, clicks
the television on. A girl with a purple mohawk
chops at the Wall with a hatchet, blasting

after an oil painting by Peter Doig

As is always the case with Doig, we are on the inside.
Outside, this time, is a coast we all know.
The view is ideal: the day has reached an end,
the water is mostly still, and the moisture in the air
makes every light into a star.

HARALD, THE AGNOSTIC 
ALE-LOVING OLD SHEPHERD
ENEMY OF THE WHISKY-DRINKING

She never knew one of us from another, so my brothers and I grew up fighting 
Over our mother’s mind
Like sun-colored suitors in a Greek myth. We were willing

“Red as butchered beasts
 Miracle-mongers end;
 Sang the first wound

“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help

In my front yard live three crepe myrtles, crying trees 
We once called them, not the shadiest but soothing
During a break from work in the heat, their cool sweat

Those piers like huge stone feet
Stand in the ebb.
                   Twice a day