Dream of Low Houses

I was there; and the river

was there everywhere;

             in the glue

             of dead leaves and dew stuck to its shores;

             in the cracked cement sides;

             in the old valley walls

widened by quarries that are gone now

and quarrymen that are gone now too;

                          in the roads;

                          in the snail tracks;

in the accumulations

of stringed earplugs; in curbside cigarettes

            left from graveyard shifts;

            in low houses with plastic

            on front windows

to seal themselves from foundry dust;

            in the explosion at Falk

Corporation that dented the fire station door

a mile and a half away;

                                         in the fish

flat as butter knives that die gasping

after following big ships

from north on the Lake,

(dying

             they are not used to the warmth

             of the harbor);

in the coyote that limps in the quarry carveout

to sun himself on Christmas morning;

in the fox that eats the birds that die

frozen to the Lake in a snap; and in the light

that seems to change monthly

though I know it never

changes in that way.

I was there

                         with a friend

at the Protestant shelter

that gave us food for believing

             we were not to blame for the state of our lives

             and for accepting the state of  Lord  Jesus Christ

as we prayed and slept in a dormitory with 20

bunks full of men flatulent or masturbating

             and I saw the invisible heart of  Jesus Christ

like a  jellyfish it stung me

like ticks I had it

             in the seams of my jeans

like an arrowhead it dug into the flesh above

my ankle. And I told Jesus, listen, if you come by me

             use the side door or the back, never the front,

             the side or the back is for family.