my son is reading “Howl”

with eyes framed in wings.

outside, people are walking across the sidewalks

specifically prepared for them to do so.

I know that countless stars

are hidden behind one of their kind.

I’m impatient.

I want the imagery to appear

before I start to mark the page.

this got me into trouble in New Bedford.

New Bedford an old salt

who went down to the sea in ships.

this to make oil

to make perfumes

to smear the nightly interiors

in a brushed-earth glaze

and to grease its industry.

all these things from blubber.

my heart breaks at the closing door.

my fear is being among the same sort of souls;

blanched-grey, all of the same mind and

suffering the same way without name tags.

they call this Heaven, once known as the back

bench-seats of limitless two-door sedans.

––my son has left Carl Solomon to his dust

and has moved to the Footnote.