35 CROSSBROOK ROAD

From many mistakes later those obstructions

          rugs construction dirt overwarm

plane crossing up absolutely tiny and black

          or our eventual departure take on

an overcast seasonless milked factory-made

          despondency but when we actually did live there

there were bright entrances for instance

          the pink sheet my father rolled the fall

leaves up into or some wet space

          squeezed from moss after a quick

snow’s immediate sunned melt an oily

          wonton dividing in my mouth I let

my tongue into each part of it a big map

          proceeds under concerned fingers roads

relentlessly curving toward the furred edge of

          the paper we continue on the flip

side almost beyond me to flatten my thinking or to

          get a car rather than simply smell

it rumbling a mess of airless highways

          breathes into these snake holes