from Hurricane Sons
12 hours to. My dead son sighs as I empty him. My live son drops chairs in the dark. Arrived: toxic squads of AAAs. A picture frame, floating.
Power poles. 0 o
Closeness to house (sequence of proportional circles)
0 camphor tree
- loquat— loquat—- avocado
My generator son needs special mix. My strap son bangs bookcase to wall. May the tattooing begin: a snake saves his garden, rounds from my sons’ shoulders down. Later will lighten.
( ) water oak (neighbor 1)
( ) water oak (neighbor 2)
. small live oak
Avocado? 40 feet from its stem. Then opera: 1. chittering titmice. 2. cicadas. 3. silence My heat stroke son asks if there’s room for his dog. My adrenaline son buys weatherstripping with cash. 3 plants ask me not to drag them inside.
Insurance asks: what else is green? Thready spines. French waterways, mapped: 1850-1862. Circulation of goods on. A cashier asks me to fetch her a loaf of bread. Me alone with 2 boys in the dark, she explains. Propane from a bait shop.
boundary 1: ( ) ( )
water oak water oak
boundary 2: . . . . .
Ice. Ice. My neighbor asks if we’re religious, if trees weep when we cut them. The avocado calls down its brothers. Everything matters, says my dead son’s phone. An ant staggers past
as a neighbor’s windows depart, blanked by board. Last garbage pick-up, last paper. My live son toasts: 1. blue skies. 2. Clink.
Closed eyes, dark rain. Can’t take you in, I say to my dead son, furiously stalled. Cats multiply, snake through the house. I throw up channels. I double-void. What’s it take to get home, trees beg my roof.