death plinks

a little bit at the

scattered airplane bits

of stevie ray vaughn and

roberto clemente, will rogers,

camilo cienfuegos and the iranians

aboard iran air flight 655 shot down by the u.s.

navy in iranian air space, bodies and luggage

floating on the indian ocean that no one in

washington noticed or said sorry, you

290 people including 66 children

didn’t deserve to get blown out

of the sky. my death floats

toward me pointless and

unknown like that, has

that frequency of

radio night i am

tuning into

or i will


i get

the true

signal, the whiff,

the head bob with a

lifted eyebrow, breeze gone

through the tops of the trees like the

sound of cars all night on the freeway

vague drone like the sound of the corridor:

somebody there forgotten on a gurney—

but it won’t have anything to do with

anastasio somoza bazooka’d in

his armored limosine, eva peron’s

mysterious perigrinating

corpse, che guevara’s

hands cut off and

sent to washington.

maybe just a bit,

just a glancing

touch of



unmarked grave.

anna mae aquash

thrown down a ravine.

(her hands cut off, and

sent etc.) roque dalton

tossed like trash on the dump—

(rosa luxemburg in a canal)

but never, no, nothing at all like

the maze of streets of the frozen city

of the death of millions in leningrad, jesus

or the towns of the mandan swept by

smallpox from boatmen on the missouri,

instead we can expect it walking

toward me in the death of

another, my nephew who

you missed this time, ethan

foster fallen to suicide

in fresno, calif., this

year, one spring

that past.


cold like

that in a scuffed

greenish ochre chapel

across the busy street from an old cemetery.