Scrape a toxic field with a broken hoe /  Found legacies turn up in splinters    blood-codes, secret sharings

In scoped and torn cartilage / of key joints, of bent presence, I wonder. / Is this house emptied by the music / of McCoy Tyner playing the keys / like, one by one, / they fell off on the floor, I wonder.

    ‘   on the waste, beneath the sky. . .  ’

They caught him yesterday night. During the NCAA Tournament game on CBS. He called the Athens Police. Georgia. Said he wanted to turn himself in and that he had 8 hostages and that he wanted to surrender on live television so that if he was shot down trying to surrender everyone would see it.

The place is extent : set on the table; / exact : : raw spool of yarn and a glass of red wine. / A candle burns in the glass burns / an ellipse above the shadow of your head on the wall. / Acclimate, in eye-pulse curette the light. / You toss the spool and the yarn loops / over the tarnished arm, / the lamp hangs by its neck from the ceiling.

(On stiff straw paper, / I write a note to God, I’ll hide in my habit, / “Please, keep Mama, Papa, Brother close ...”) /  Before sun melts periwinkle to hot-red dawn, / they’re grunting, “Sign it! Renounce this country!”