Wednesday:

the marks of your boot-heels 

in the sand,

leopard footprints 

in the wet fog of rainforest,

lead west 

towards a few guns

and a sun, hanging heavy

like a bandaged hand

and switching positions 

with constellations 

and the wrinkling moon

like a changing of the guard

O, its gotten heavy, hasn't it?

but heavy and delicate

like a glass elephant

or a television

moved down the 

s

 t

   a

      i

         r

            s

from one apartment 

to the next. 

to another haunted apartment

in North Dakota

where ghosts 

move like moonlight

on the steel of a knife

come over some evening

and play hungover piano lines

for me, my dear,

with heavy hands

and a slow bounce of the foot

on the brass pedals

and let it all vibrate, goddamn

from the white tail of your spine

to your fingers

like soft bullets

falling from new bruises

on the hot sides 

of a sun beaten lion