I told the dark haired
girl
to come down out of the apple
tree and take her medicine. In a dream I told her so.
We're going to have to do something about the night. The tissue
won't restore itself in the dark. I feel safe only at noon.
Waking. Out by the shed, their home, the chicano cherrypickers
sing hymns on a hot morning, three guitars and a concertina.
We don't need dimestore surrealists buying objects to write
about or all this up-against-the-wall nonsense in Art News.
Even in the wilderness, in Hell Roaring Creek Basin, in this
grizzly kingdom, I fear stepping into a hidden missile silo.
My friend has become crippled, back wrenched into an "S" like
my brain. We'll go to Judah to wait for the Apocalypse.
