#23

Alvin woke up and did not know
or could not place himself, crumbles

of the glass of water or the terrible
pursuings of the sun. Wombat/s

not to dig extensive burrow systems
with rodent-like front teeth and powerful

claws. Rimbaud could not say/pronounce
his r's, just a clipping lisp of air.

You are not breaking at the sound of
his news. Nine, seven, five, a little

counting to convince the letters are baked
with molars. Mixed hands with glass and blood,

David with his powerful jaw structure. Circling
the kill to let its name speak. Our names

tumble dry and loose leaves, all things

leave. Clumped fur, ripped cushion, tired
haircut, brackish water, a lamp, a light,

an odometer. Fitted family hugged porcelain in a
frame. And the dogs spoke, "I'm gonna lick you

up bitch."