Unincorporated
by Jake Sheff
Naked in the moonlit wood, the cold night,
After running down a dirt road at noon
From summer’s two black dogs,
I’m out of breath, but into the chill
I exhale a black dog
That evaporates in all directions.
The ground is covered with leaves that may hide
A woman, but under their skin are
More leaves. In a previous life
I wore linen, a mustache and pomade; I no longer
Believe memory. There’s a half-filled ledger
In my horse’s stomach. It starts at the end, but I refuse
To retrieve it. My drunken neighbor learned
It won’t finish if you do.
I know that I have to go, but sleep
Is the only exit. Through its heavy, black lid
The moon gazes; the blinking stars are
Yawning. I lay myself down
On all fours and become
What I was: flesh where flesh is metal,
And night is the consummate blacksmith.
The distant silo I reached, climbed
Its rusty ladder to dive into its pile of corn –
My body still floats in its musty air, suspended
Forever on a lattice of dust motes.
