I goddamn love all my friends, call
from st. cloud to tell me put
flat land and chain restaurants in a poem, as
we’re mid-westerners. think
of it, me too,
a mid-westerner, though I can
describe the ocean. and as well describe
my affection for flannel shirts and of course
the ways in which a broken pogo stick on a picnic table
is all we can hope for in the big, delirious end. minnesota
where I have learned the importance of
precision and failed to implement it.
where every day the body tugs
out easier, like a fiber
of rubbed moths wharving
thin through winter corn stalks. oh where
did I drop my bow-tie in the frost? minneapolis
puts gauze up into the night whether you’re high
in the back seat of Ryan Thompson’s car or not. the
bars where Paul played and Koza played
and the few times I didn’t get drunk. ah, my brittle mississipi
what I wouldn’t give for a reason to wade
shirtless and wild. I am wishing
I am something to scatter. something to keep a warm face.
someone tell the meth-heads
about a straw canoe.
tell Roberto, Enrique, Alejandro: you have no idea
what an easy time you make me. hey,
Ryan, will you guys
come back to the cities, please? I’m as bored
as connecticut, where no one laughs or weeps
or says anything but look, honey, how the moon disappears
into seawater.
