Bone Pile

My neighbors have eyes like binoculars.

They’re trained here. Mine are

telescopes. Aware, clear, my

vision never sleeps. My neighbors

are important. They hum like engines.

.

I hate outside. It’s the floor of

an amphitheater. And I’m the one

the lions want. The hanged man.

The con in the cage at the crossroads.

.

There’s an explanation.

Gum wrappers in the gutter, that

wrinkled envelope in the parking lot:

they fell from someone’s hand. Every

scrap is scanned. Somewhere a piece of

paper is scratched with answers.

.

I hate inside. It burns. My brain buzzes

like a hornet in a plastic cup. The water

in the shower is a gesture.

Meaning hemorrhages in the air. Shoes

knock at the stairs.

I stare out the window.

.

I know there’s a key.

My arms stab closets, coat pockets, garbage bags.

Some clue is here. It’s clear. I know.

.

My house is a bone pile. I look

for the trace teeth, some red smear.

Some expected bite of meat.

It’s clear. I see. I know. I hear.