The Pickup’s

stuck in the trees, lodged

fast. When you

were four, when five . . .

we’ve tried, Jack’s alive, cannot

rock it out. Now who’s

in the house? The uncles!

stove in and spins out

in the sent-down: slick leaves.

We’ve knocked hard, seen

rings of stars, sister,

and we’re tired of pushing,

of walking up and down Broad,

faces swimming in shiny

as bedspreads on motel beds

and the sidewalk

black bright in grass

stiff with frost but still

growing through, sister, see?

Downtown last summer, I counted

seven demolitions: debris

overhead drifting

and the mannequin’s

bent elbow a building

floating downstream

green the river, the roof

green the kitchen sink

we stood at spitting,

kicking the counter

and scouring plates

in filmy dishwater until

they shone, fishtailed

out of our throats? until

they shone like our own

collarbones: shaped

in the dark and strange