Astronomy of Fishes & Emily Dickinson (1986)
One eye squeezed like a bag phone between shoulder & ear.
Another eye stuck in a paper towel tube like it’s a telescope
& the whole country sky is as recyclable & sparse as the goatee
I couldn’t grow when I wanted one most. In other words, I’m
back in Indiana & things are looking up. Back to the eyebrow-
smoothing absolution of felt Kangols shaped the same as any
number of heavenly bodies ringing down for their own bell-
shaped edification & lightning bugs rounded like glow rings
with legs. These country skies ruffle in summer like the bangs
the neighbor girl used to rock back when my homie tried
to ruffle her skirt in the back of his mom’s minivan. His burgundy
seats & almost-bubbled privacy windows. His slapped face,
his sliding van door smashed shut like EPMD beats. The street
light peeled the dark off the whole sorry scene like a moon roof
pushes back on every ride to Eagle Creek where the booming
systems full of criminal threats in Preludes & Tauruses shake
the gangs of minnows as they nibble the rib cages & pale swimmers’
ankles below. All the while, their gills open & close like fingers
making gang signs boys in Indiana only recognize on T.V.
