Grin in a Glass Case
- for the Drains and William S. Burroughs

There must be a plane or bunches of planes
that wakes me this humid Pennsylvania morning,
my fingers were arrows without targets
warming up to sand the colt's foot
into the upper arms of Sean and David's harps.
Before the beautiful finishing begins
we see the white cat
on two head-sized rocks looking at us
watch the vole with stretched-out forelegs.
The vole on his hinders,
the string of his intestines run out,
then after lunch there was a small leg
left on the porch, some other piles
looked like tiny kidneys,
everything was stuck with gray hair.
His last moment a jacketed ocean,
at the top of his vision
luck rubbed him out for the sake of this poem.