Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Insomniac of banshees, or like a
Child addicted to the backyard's séances,
While someone sleeps up a hill that
Has evaporated;
Like after the dog is done doing good tricks
It becomes emolliated
And no longer eligible to attend a good
College—
And the housewives whose hands are always
Filled finds it a hard time to buy trinkets
Halfway up the taoist's temple,
Looking as forlorn as a hummingbird without
Any midgets—
As I remember you, back pressed against
My great-uncle's raspberries—
All a flummox in your cultivations, and not
A space for you left in the junior parking-lot,
And not a star left for you in all of the heavens:
Then didn't you become the brightness of
An amnesiac,
While there was a typhoon in your carport,
And a lovely song skipping through the echoes of
Your cellular phone,
As the foxes were jumping for Eucharist,
Like the plagiarists leaping for Shakespeare at
Picking time.