IT'S NOT WHERE YOU'RE NOT

in the backroom they got funeral sage
and gypsum, jutting from Formica and imported marble
as fickle as fascist orchid. 
groomed by doom and promises
in deep pavilions of unescorted providence
and very seldom rain.

there’s a book on a barnacle
with a chapter on parakeets and marmalade…
and a dozen disremembered epiphanies!
a coffee can full of mice
with severe hats
strumming a washtub bass
with stiff whiskers
for broken shanties, and a few ghosts….
tucking ribbons into the bibles 
from different countries
with arbitrary zeal… literate poltergeists-
sowing whimsy where 
the angels die 
for trying
.
there’s a quail egg in a chalice
laughing at a hen
without a 
mouth.

in the backroom they gather the rain into a spot
where you’re gonna be. they leave bourbon 
on a book
on a shelf on 
the moon-
and you’re 
there

but it’s not
where you’re
not.