Boy crouched under the sink
Your beard hugs you like flies.
You become lost inside this natural machinery, an arm joint, a
socket, a nail.
A holy terror rises within your lengthened, curling abdomen:
You cannot locate your eyes and mouth.

Come, these are last year's clothes,
Here are clean ones to suit your frame
And they are warm and laundered.
Your soul has forgotten the pleasure to probe, To climb nigh into
something new and fitted: It lags behind. Now you smoke
in the phone booth, you smoke
behind the jet rental car. Your face slits were sewn; the skin holds your
mind like nothing else.

The telephones have turned their heads away at your frightening
eternal hum.
You speak but one word. Your shoes
click click click,
your fingers have grown too long to write, your fingers have
grown too long to smoke. Heaven truly begins here in this bony
expansive soul home, it reaches for ever and the lit
ceilings climb and climb.

You are alone in this grand house,
let the filigree swoop, let the floors fall. The clock returns to these
twelve old friends: At last the mortal epoch is done
and Your frame ceases to move,
to toss and catch with waning precision. The porcelain sky
shines and mists,
holds Your perfect climate. Stay still,

watch the flies on the screen door. They mean well. See their drugged
hypnosis.
Look! You are not so different:
Watch their foreign, cousin bat bodies.

You share this salmon hearth.
You share this wrinkled corpse.