after H.C. Westermann
The reddish glow is jacked. Ole Cliff he found
the yard out back, and it sure got the roses bright.
Criminy anchor, tippled hull, haunt of
pieces&parts in a footlocker full.
O Canada don’t hold a candle to thee,
spring’s air like cigar from the gunnery,
she was the slightest gal on the circuit see
and I loved her.
Yellow barn planks thrum in the hum of the
plane. Handstandin’est, sweet bargain pal,
I could have found nothing in the hickory
but what below burned frightest. Knot me.
The walls of the cabin were damp with rain.
The honeworts at the door were sotted with scent.
All night the woodchuck gnawed at the floor,
Sawtooth incisor, unearthly call.
I, in the eaves, and you, at your post, stared
In the dark and the silence it rent. Dawn.
Damp with rain were the walls of the cabin.
And the honeworts outside, sotted with scent.
All the matches are printed “Hook’s Casino.”
They do Casino Night right, here under hatches
at the Hookery Spa.
The dykes from the next bunk turned unfriendly.
I may not be cool.
Reading may not be the alternative to Hook’s Casino.
Big boy! Stiffen that thought and hold it, won’t you?
Yassir Igotcha, the half-Palestinian, third-Minneapolisan,
stirred at sight of the dice. I’m like nice.
But not very. I got the roil of
American swells, the bugs and sad TV sedimentation,
the gamboling cells under glass in the stratified light,
a limpid one-two over chips on the felt.
I might not be right. Freeweights away,
Hook’s wheels spin on far and long in the night.