bills of sale

to him
the creditors
slips were as
delicate
and paper as god's
rights or rights-of-man
and the flowers
we (all) are standing
by and allergic
to-
hyphened injections
on the back of a hand,
where the spiders landed,
or the

great gentlemen wrote kindly
reminders-

not on
the back of his hand nor
the smoke nor
the poor grade of tinny
pick-axes, it was not
a mill town always. there were
impossible grins here-

reels
and
waltzes
and
his coveted

bills-of-sale

cantankerous "landon carter" waxes on across-the-ocean
"oh yes my brethren they must be as we are, of honor
and of congenial associations
of debited honor"

the radio
from the car
cries out
a bolingbrokean soliloquy of COUNTRY suspicion
and COUNTRY

stares from
the back of his hand

"yes I wrote that" reading an annotated biography and laughing like
all the most glorious uproar of drunkenness against the black-
stone backdrop of english history and

tobacco leaves