[i’ll throw sand in your eye]

understand that all
truth is de chirico’s truth

that objects seen are
only a beginning

early august in another town, 
                                     okay? 

you are almost, but not
quite, the prodigal son

you are empty-handed
and broken-hearted,
and you walk into the room 
where your father’s body was 
found 15 years earlier

anything?

bare white walls and
sunlight, maybe

a memory of closed doors
or leaving trains

a hand grabbing you
by the throat, by the back
of the neck, and the man was 
not a martyr, but a
self-made victim

was both a clenching 
fist and an pen hand

the smell of cigarettes
and of whiskey

sound of laughter

of crying


you were always
such a fucking baby