I saw them take your body out of the house, leg hanging off the stretcher, your mother, a / crazed Mexican legend, screaming after you. Earlier, her little baby slumped on the toilet, / slipping through his father’s hands; hands that had once ended lives in some Asian jungle, / couldn’t keep you here anymore than they could keep a country. 

You /  me, /  reach frantically for Frank, / who stands dead center. / Haloed by a visor, / his face shines; / his eyes stare / 
defiantly ahead.

What of our ways, / the wampum bead touching / all other beads, all stories / linked, woven, not a timeline / 
but a möbius strip. A round Earth, / carried on the back of a giant / turtle.

We love best the dogs who walk / upright, those sleepless explorers / who purchase daguerreotype hair jewelry / on eBay every night with no lights on,

Forgive my impatience / for nostalgia, your penicillin or wine, / your muddling through pleasure / as a map whose compass was inked / by men who put darker men / to the lash,