I see the garden women
in their gravy days
when hair hung golden or
black is the floor
& the walls
were velvet.
—John Wieners
Too hollowed
out
not to make the
noise of death,
unlike Dad’s
whistle (super-
loud!), which
would often
call us home
for supper (or
else just call
us home).
Can we go
back to the
farce we
created
just for
fun
or
is
this
real-
ity just
a distance
of the census?
