Poem for Hoa Nguyen
It follows from an envelope
locked latch & reading
in the tub while
you’re scubbing somebody’s
spidery hair.
Is it a poem if it’s
all sleepy & has
crooked teeth—
if the gunpowder is
buttoned to a longing
for Texas autumn?
Little moviehouse for
we who stick to everything
& quotient & spirit &
drawbridges sharking the traffic.
I’m on the phone all
about this—I’m yellow
in the green light
& hoping the drunk stories
stay well enough inside
mesquito swamp tripping & the nets
foil good song & away into
the city narrowing.