–for my Grandfather James
I asked James,
can you feel you’re dying?
Can you feel the water pouring from the hose
turn to nothing in the grass?
James loved his big rigs.
I love the sweet metallic reek
filling my own gas tank.
All day the train
shuttles heaps of carpet scraps
through the wild blue phlox of Georgia
where James’ oil truck exploded.
When Aristotle said there must be something
immoveable in the animal
for the animal to move,
he must of meant James,
two years in a hospital bed.
Like the woman smoking on the billboard—
for one whole week only half her mouth
opened in the rain.
I think of Selene’s horse, its marble head
hacked from the Parthenon
and shipped to England in “manageable pieces.”
To see it, is to see pain
bulging in a single vein.
James can’t smile or blink.
exiled, perched on a plinth in the cold light of a museum.
That’s one thing.
Then there’s James,
wide-eyed, nostrils flaring.