Mockingbird shouts Escape! Escape!
and would I could I’d

fly, drive back to that house
up the long hill between queen

anne’s lace and common daisyface
shoulder open stuck door

run springwater from kitchen
tap drench tongue

palate and throat
throw window sashes up screens down

breathe in mown grass
pine-needle heat

manure, lilac unpack
brown sacks from the store:

ground meat, buns, tomatoes, one
big onion, milk and orange juice

iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing
potato chips, dill pickles
the Caledonian-Record
Portuguese rosé in round-hipped flask

open the box of newspapers by the stove
reread: (Vietnam Vietnam)

Set again on the table
the Olivetti, the stack

of rough yellow typing paper
mark the the crashed instant

of one summer’s mosquito
on a bedroom door

voices of boys outside
proclaiming twilight and hunger

Pour iced vodka into a shotglass
get food on the table

sitting with those wild heads
over hamburgers, fireflies, music

staying up late with the typewriter
falling asleep with the dead