Ishi by Scott Ezell
square tongues speak brick words
that couple into nothing,
surrounded by hair and flowers.
decay of fruit and love and sex,
all subside
into chemical contemplation,
alcohol and buzzing bees,
sweet sticky scents.
police machines chop the sky
into thistles of noise and fear—
I pick up and carry a river on my back,
a cloak of home
to drape across
the shoulders of the world,
enfolding streams and stones.
glaze of bone
across my eyes,
a hood of silence,
my tongue of salt
dissolving into words
I speak to you.
