Tonight I'd like to read some poems that were recently
published in Collections, and then
go on to a few more pieces that will be included in the book
that Lewis mentioned, Chihuahua, which
will be published next month.
Can you hear me all right in the back?
Yeah?
OK.
Good.
Let me start with a true story.
And it's called The Werewolf.
Circling, I draw you closer to yourself, my heart-belly cheap.
So that you sit-in the hogan, pistol pointed at the door.
Freezing in your sweat, while I walk around, walk around.
Beating my arms, making snarls and gestures to the stars
you can only imagine through the walls.
Until you fall through your arms as any man would.
Until you wake and look out hungry,
lung struck by the snow.
See my clean footprints?
Razors on the toes, with none leading in and none meting out.
And beyond the low mountains, which
also dig their claws in, lower their heads,
and begin to crawl.