Shöne Madonnen

Like a buck, I walk right into the woods,

listening for the fear into which I was born.

Like a wick burning out more room for itself.

I know the way, but I’ve no purpose.

My name, the joke, Mountain Man Jack.

By George, by my father,

by winter.

I write down, “tell dad you’re like Homer.”

I used to wear Marlon Brando’s On the Waterfront

buffalo plaid coat. My brother wore it too.

I’m no hunter,

nothing to raze, no place to sleep.

Tongue-tied trees offer no message how I want, like I want.

To have nothing like this,

twin cherry to being.