On TV
On TV a model flashed
her hands out under the lights,
made her body slippery
as a ruby. What the hell
had I done worth two shits
was what I thought my beer
can would say to me with its
nasally little song if it sang.
Answer: I had watched turkey
buzzards make their arcs
above untold quantities of corn.
My body was an armchair.
My body might roll out toward the banks
of the loud night like a wave, it might
dance like cellophane in traffic, it might flash
green as TV’s against windows.
My beer can closed its eye
and sang upside down a new
TV-name for me, a lovely
sound, out under the lights, far.
What Geraniums Smell Like
Like birds.
Like my brother leaving for the lake.
Like the smudge of fireworks on driveways.
Like breath trapped in a canteen.
Like the word breath.
Like mice.
Like want.
Like a nickel in a fist.
Like my brother leaving for the store.
Like my brother leaving for the war.
Like a handful of washed hair.
Like my mom humming Johnny Cash.
Like a red towel in the wash.
Like a scrape on a thigh.
Like a Service Merchandise.
Like my dad’s violin.
Like a cloth that cleans guns.
Like car leather.
Like a war turned low on a radio.
Like parents getting used to you gone.
Like baby I love you.
Like you are the only one.
Like holes in the knees of jeans.
Like what you weren’t supposed to see.
Like drops of blood on a hardwood floor.
Like my brother leaving for the war.
Like ice in a glass.
Like beets.
Like leaving.
Like please.
Like bees.
