All These Rooms

FRUIT OF THE FIELD

Slip on wet leaves into the river.
In the sky a fine mist.
Climb the bank. Walk through a sandbox.
Melted GI Joes. Step over the gate.
Red paint flecks off the window.
The living room carpet butts
into the prairie. A river. Buffalo. A steady
loud drum, a high lone song. Me streak their faces
black and red. They strike camp. One holds a pole
before him as they ride. A circle of teepees. A crowd
gathers. Whooping. Children
meet the riders and race them back.

Sunset. Nextdoor. A chunk of stone missing
from the ear of the marble lion out front. His mane
flows into the emptiness, emerges again. Inside
is a streetlight in the branches of a tall maple. Leaves
drifting down.

In the alley. Frat boys knock down a man.
They stomp on his head. Blood. They scatter.
The body peels itself up. He is torn. I can see his imprint
on the cement. He closes a knife,
gives space to the corners, staggers off.

I trip. The leaves stick to my face. Smells
like urine. The raine eases. Wind comes up,
sails me into the air over the street.