“What the Author Was...”
for Anselm B

What the author was to the writer: How it all comes out in the end What the excess is to the soup pot: stuck in the mesh, what floods won’t flood How urgent the sun’s grouse: How belittled we feel in the morning The last time we saw the last one we saw: the first time we saw the first sun at all The rest brought below what was tangent’s light: the way we heft our truck, we belong to these houses fuck this town, all the gold’s gone anyhow: only the windshield shines light on you now.