some kind of murder

some kind of murder grows under my forehead
my wrists accustomed to the sound of pounding
a gentle drum
easing the years into my stomach:

what kind of world is it
strung onto the guitar
to weep?

murderers are dancing in the streets
with their photographers

but all their lyrics are only stolen:

we can bury the thieves yet.

how many shining days is it?
count them up
for the cats and hallways and stairs
each snow
each streetcar
dead or alive

every vehicle of uncertain frame
glowing red with rust
sputtering asleep:

the murder is the meeting of the light
with memory
a flooding:

fill my wreaths with water, brothers
for I am going swimming