come home

Brighton, England, October 2018

Jackie said she liked the color of my sweater
I’m glad I have her taste
tell you what it means

Her son’s finest hour
playing Iago in the broken room
surging up wire to string trainers
with his studio of sadists
turning out from in
their film and hair make up my skin

May the warp and weft carry
on toward my own and all
America, the only place
I’ve ever been really

Thin membranes for the sun
the plastic West
singing crystal beads for color vision
that’s what she’s paid for
the shroud of living

But the same bright fleece
was just the zipper’s candle free
to glow through them and you and me

Two fingers pinched
a solitary softness
her material signs and
his half-crimes

May they spin in peace forever
and their curses break never