The Promised Land, apparently, is thick with pines.

Around here, the river smells
like brimstone.

The 24-hour bait shop on the avenue makes its money
selling methamphetamines.

An old dial-tuned radio, set to an AOR station, sits on a shelf
above the crayfish tank.

Through the static, Rick Danko sings about believing in hexagrams.

*

What shape is the closest synonym for lonely?

Maybe it’s the ampersand. One of Klee’s dots that went
for a walk and got lost,

preferring vertiginous loops to straight lines—

like Thelonius Monk, wearing a white fur hat and
improvising on ‘Epistrophy.’

His piano sounds anxious, an eighth of a beat
out of time,

percussive like the moon when she sashays down
the hallway in a pair

of knee-high black come-fuck-me boots.

*

I want the moon to be Grace Kelly, the way Hitchcock shot
her first scene in Rear Window

soft focus lens, tight close up on her face,
so that I can pretend

I’m Jimmy Stewart gently roused from sleep,

opening my eyes to discover the most beautiful woman
I’ve ever seen

leaning in to kiss me awake.