who stole the black triangle
magnet house held you clanging
out of the murk shark hands
and a long pink
slit in the throat breathing
dagger words tumbleweed words
red-faced men haunt the windows
in the kitchen a stereo mole
whimpers quietly to death
tongue squeezed out of its body
in the garden there is only one fatal word
through the fishscale broom
over the speedbump doorway
of a thrift shop, rifling
through skirts to the air
conditioned drone hot to the roof
of Indian music, love the gold skin
of the trumpet love the aural leer
from the flexed stem
of the trumpet's throat,
cries through the belly of a donkey
the tin horns of family gathering
around the signal
from a burst clamshell.