sad poem

there's a man in burlap
sick of being there, sick
of being examined, like a
dead football brain, sick
like a dog, a dying one.

i am tired of my cold school
the old wool things in my closet
and the goddam festering belch
the closing door at sunset.

there is a flute in midwinter
that plays songs of despair
tongs or spoons chiming in
like ghosts of mid-air
tang, the drink--spilled (crazily, then sadly)--or the bird
(happily recalled, now tearful)

   brings to mind [some party?],
   the icy sadness that follows the present
   punchbowl now meltwater
   then a chore, to clean? -- now something
   almost precious to remember; throw it away,
   it's just a dirty paper tablecloth

<>

 gnats on overcoats eat expensive holes,
      in wool; drugs,
being taken by everyone present. being taken
to the rodeo, i haven't   been, but want to
i want to be ;  i want to   be taken ;   i want to
   go 

   maybe, (also)
my body, you know--it's a wonderland, my
boys, you've heard, precious as woodlots,
   (hello foresters) (they are)

   i think it's
drizzling,    every day, (i'd tell them) i have
to keep hammering the sturgeon
trails (rivers, roads) until my back is split
and everything broken, spills
out, gilled and fucked out.