if only pockets held talking bonesand answers that you might not likeas much as I do – if I could producesearch lights on a dime sweeping back alleys and bedrooms for the drama of it all, if I could laughlightly at cliffside, waves sculptinga g

and I can be self-indulgent while I write, the pencil keeping track of tolls the close dawn with insides milky wise, above catching of morning never the permanence of curbstones, or of houses along the streets there are just the coyotes laughing