I think the mongoose and I
are the only ones who see him
the thin man striding through the valley
in whistling night
he swings a fiery machete
over fields of desert wheat

the mountains are high like a choir
the stars are eggs
the tall man knows someone has or will
put a gun to their head to blow everything out:
the everlasting stink of questions
all of next week

observe the skittering creatures with
sharp feet in the sagebrush
they are the things dead people
know about you

your eyes are walls
take these spoonfuls of death
and ask the cactus or the mongoose why
there is red stucco on the walls and why
the junipers are weeping

there are no sounds you can make that will lift
the skin off my forehead
lift it with a knife blade
use a silver
sliding motion

I will never move beyond the frail lilies
on her coffin but if you ask me I will tell you
my name
is Oscar

do you know how long my legs are how high
my stride