The third of these prose poems is called The Brothers.
Three of us left our names, the rumors
that circulate inside our heads, it knows them.
As children we were told many times
raised letters, the square instant of metal mine.
I lean forward, wanting to be sure
but a new name's there in its place and another, another,
another before I can read them.
Quick as bullets, the world behind glass,
the monies underneath, the hole rectangular box fall.
They're removing it, someone has the key.
They're removing it, the crisp bills
snapping each one the way fresh laundry snaps in the wind.
It's inside me now, the wind.
This far up I have trouble seeing everything.
The rambling house with its servants' quarters,
flowers and all the downstairs rooms, and the tennis courts.
The boy with blond hair selling lemonade
to the players who have come down
the small green slope in wet sneakers, spent
wiping their faces on the bright towels, the grassy knoll
where the shots came from one for each of us,
just a blur smaller all the time.