THE DEAD SHEEP

Impaled Matrix-stylein a hall of headless beings& beingless heads,‘The Lost Marbles’weren’t the ‘spaghetti,ends of days, onionskinrainbow orbs’ I first imagined—but rather: cold draperyof ancient stone. How had Inot known Elgin, Parthenon,pars pro toto (“a part takenfor the whole”)?Can you imagine safekeepinga broken bowl,a busted nailor a parchment scrapfor all perpetuity? Here encasedin glass, a petrified shoe.And here an amphorano longer waftingof fish sauce. Though I stillhear the sea in it, cusping.When Andres Serranojarred his urine, droppeda crucifix into it, backlit it,shot it & christened itPiss Christ, he pissedoff a bunch of peoplebut you can’t deny its impact.When an ex-lover’sfather was confrontedfor stashing glistening jarafter glistening jarof urochrome in the basement(it’d be years before the familydiscovered the hoard of emptiedrum, vodka, whiskey, wine& gin bottles hid in the attic,under the couch,…