The way we made sure the entire tree glowed with
only blue lights you’d think we were calculating
the atmosphere. This was our time to be sad,

 Bridle and martingale,
the crupper’s strap and buckle,

hobble and tassel binds

 Someday you will leave this town and not look back
but for now you keep hurtling toward
the red center, the road unfolding,

Jayne Mansfield isn’t dead.
I know.
She isn’t living, maybe, but she isn’t dead.

A toenail clipping floating in a toilet bowl
like a crescent moon reflected in water

the summer rolls up its black tongue: from inside the machine 

Where do you come from?      Where did you grow?     Your leaving
brought you here     To the nest at the center of your home     Where
have you flown?     Your lowered gze at the center of your home     Where

When I woke up, I did not listen to what the poem told me to write down

There is no room for them horizontally,
vertically, or in a jar: glass or ceramic—