Last night—because of all
that fighting and probably this strange
weather, I saw you—the way you are
in that portrait your brother has
up in his hallway.
Anyway.
In the dream I had last
night, I toss heavy metal rings at your hometown
Spring Faire, behind the big white church
head, which your Mother tells me almost
all burnt down one year ago. It stands today—
not today standing at all just
dreamwise,
—shingled and white washed. And you
say to me I hate the way it looms
over everything. Not me hating the church
at all but you hating it with everything
you have. And you’re so small. A little girlie with red
knees and a milk gap set in your teeth. It makes you
embarrassed. It has no bells in its steeple. Instead
a tinny sound chokes through loudspeak
ers every hour on the hour. Then your Mother tells me
concentrate
I finally get one to wobble on the green glass neck. Singing.
El Golpe Avisa 