in Joe Ginder’s barn, camera’s eye
screwed up out of all proportion)

hair fetching light fume—
lit barnwood cold flowers
hung six feet from the
ground gone home gone
home gone
home
gone home (how

the shoulder leans
grieving

2

without these photographs of
you, what record of your being
here? you protest, but how have
these papers, birth records, progress
reports, baptismal certificates,
train schedules, and badly drawn
maps known you as I have?

3

We could go to Rafetown Bridge
or instead jumping open graves by
moonlight the night heron in the
trees six feet from the ground a
film of water, run-off the color of
lye or beer the old man waves his
myrtle branch, asks, what exactly
are you insinuating? long and tall,
we spill a pint of Ginny Crow on
fresh parch marks, ask, Why does
Loretta Lynn always get to play desire?

4

in Charley Sterchi’s barn, not
enough light to piss by)

swallows above an eggshell floor and
an open drawer’s significance pop
bottles in pieces the calendar in slow
disintegration on the north wall and
now gone monochromatic plums hay
pitched six feet from the ground you
‘re singing, love is in its rocking chair
love is in its rocking chair (how

the voice leans
grieving