Cut off the ears of winter they have overheard too much, where incinerators burn, where rubble-strewn streets are covered in dust from the remodeling. Again, the doe-man in mauve cashmere— the nerve of him—in the never world (where ashes are harvested) where ashes rain down in glory, a jackpot of answers. Tonight, the underwriting of desire is an inky carbon copy. I have already—that last time drunk on scotch. Then all morning a chain gang of transvestite prostitutes litters the front yard—the Police Station next door also on fire, burning, burning handcuffs, the soles of shoes not holding the earth, cars skidding everywhere, the tire’s frame sets sparks along the road. This is my last dollar, last cigarette, last match.
From Cut Off the Ears of Winter by Peter Covino. Reprinted with the permission of New Issues Poetry & Prose, Kalamazoo, Michigan. All rights reserved.