Ghosts peel from the wallpaper. They turn to foxes,
run red to the trees. Weather knots
at the corners of sleep and will not recede.

By now, sir, you expect a second installment.
What novel is worth its ink if the hero's ship
never finishes sinking, if the cold tide

If I tell a story of America it will be with the needle
splitting Demuth's needle-pocked skin-how his blood blooms
in insulin as he hunches his shoulder to shield the syringe

Were I there, leaning against a London building's
filthy stonework, gazing by chance into a street
at the moment of this carriage's transit

In evening light's splayed radiance,
in a field of scrub and vines hedging a river,
a boy found a black snake sunning itself.

My mother wanted to believe she would never lose me,

the way she wanted to believe in Christ
but now maybe all she believes is Thomas,

When I see a man
in a dress shirt, I want
to walk up behind him,

I am we: space the gift,
a white sprit of motion—

Now only one thing is bright enough
to cast a shadow—Venus.

You can take my hand
anywhere. Tonight,
let it be the story of smoke