pleather, olive barstools ____________ i sleep on the boxspring of a buried widow making sure jack gets the recessed coils i was her next man in line she left her fortune in an antique vacuum for a dirty rain day died in a home, mute without the means to express the vault beneath the stainless steel the terror of her labors the genious in her paranoia i hid her bar of soap in the basement bathroom there is luck in the perfumes of the dead purity in the mix of water, which is caustic on sinners skin sometimes in the morning i can smell her in her egyptian paper towels around her thousand golden cats i never met her but i never not miss her it has to be the boxspring suddenly i like a.m. radio which doesn't really make sounds other than talking which is bees work which is like fish hollers or cloud tantrums in brazil, heard from pennsylvania which full circles me to rain the kind that makes new paint dirty and illuminates the shoulders of ghosts when i go they'll torch the mattress and spread our skin cells, singed across magestic landfills resting in the recesses of much softer trash.