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Events Involving Glass at Coyote Lake


The bougainvillea is on fire. The bougainvillea
Is glass. The bougainvillea is glass
That will be broken by the silent tide of night.

Our certified delivery smiles at us
From the back of the truck,
From its browned loveseat, a smile

That infects our hands with the cutting howl
Of death, a face. Whatever you do, don’t look at it,
At anything. Or else our baby’s crib

Will move through the city while we sleep it off,
While we wait for the knockknock that wakes us
The moment before our nightmare of silver peaks.

Fallen gallons of Wild Turkey
Drip into the dry, crepitating, brush.
What is it that is on fire? What is it

That won’t share its heat? Violent tree—
Jacaranda cannon—and this lake
Cut into the earth by a hopeless prisoner.

His signature is illegible as were his confessions,
Scribbles slit there with a shiv he made for himself.
The earth is a shining bulb of glass

That refuses to give the light it has stolen
Back to the strange men that have picked it
From the burning fields of yawning tomato. 

There is a hole in my back, a great patch
Of coal.  That must be my skin, the notch in my spine
That I will never reach, that I cannot itch. And there,

The bugle sounds, and lifts up the sand.