In the name of one more leavening
I hoist the flag, the closed eye
of the letter B in cursive here.

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,

Listen to the unforgivable birds
piercing cold sky and singing like needle and thread
and feel for the scar splitting your eyebrow.

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

There is no place like the unbearable ribbon
of highway that cuts the Midwest into two unequal

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

Among the birches
ears scooped the rustle.

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