You can live or lie on it

this old sin

of sitting on hands. 

Dust pans,

uprooted

cross-pollinated

potted house plants:

weary concrete  

crumbles bleary,

soaked and cheery

to be so cheeky:

frost bitten noses

and Teddy Roosevelt

bares on wooden steps,

crust fallen to dust bunny status

in the back bedroom,

window latches thrown open.

I wait til I get home

to take a shower,

an hour and a half from now

is half past the mile,

after while

settles soda in a can

alley taut a scowl at me,

stoic and grainy tin-type. 

A metaphysical relapse

unto the self

is secure in the knowledge

of love in the back bedroom,

the hatches thrown open

on belle country streets,

sing the streets, sing the bells—

the fresh water wells,

the Indian yell oh crow oh carry oh wanderer wary of winter and snow,

sit on the banks

watch the river slow

frozen crawl,

a white woolen shawl

on my shoulders. 

The more I get older,

I roll Sith old boulder

up the hill to let it drown,

crest and pull down

my crown to cover my eyes,

and rayon,

and lies,

from the back bedroom—