cotton sweaters with the American flag, Oxford shirts, and riding boots.

Old cadences, cracklings along the sight line,
your arms thrown back, I remember this,

But no wind and I, under the constant chaos of that dark,
hung on the ledge of my love like a dragonfly.

I came to Alabama for the dreams

   of Sun Ra, who said he was born on another

impossible, uninhabitable bottom land and unreconstructed

What does it matter where I speak from?
The dog lying breathless at my feet,
Torpid in this humid heat,

I went down to Missolonihgi
with my oldest friend—this was a long time ago—
and we visited Byron’s house,

Cool spring, and a fine freshness,
burred and fruity airs along Canal,

It began with the deer, dead in the water 
Just off my parents’ dock, 
And then there was a procession of horses,

As in the plays, the body was decor,
Fit embellishment to a scene
Where chance's misrule seemed to have gone as planned:

Yes, I want someone to know me well,
better than the foreman at Ford Electra
knows the chips