Collar
My brother works in a factory
there is no factory
A crust of salt rims your boots
there is no crust of salt
Snow still falls in the parking lot
there is no snow in the parking lot
Concrete slips out from under you
there is no snow in the parking lot
There are no hands
there are no handshakes
And at the intersection
there are no intersections
The bend in my stepfather's back
I have no stepfather bending his back
There is no work
There is only work
And on your way home
there is no way home and the house
Not your childhood house is the house
that you grew up in where
your childhood house used to be
There's no extension of the body
and the body extends and
There is no coincidence
It's snowing as I write this
I'm not writing this it snows
Somebody else has said this
nobody else I know has
The past is a foreign country
there are no other countries
My brother works in a factor
I was born an only child
in a house that is a house
Not a childhood home
but concrete slipping out from under you
There is nobody to extend
The truck spreads blue salt on the street
there is no water table
The salt washes off the streets
there is no crust of salt
And at the intersection
there are no handshakes
A crust along boots along their way
No water no table not a house but
I have no stepfather
there is only work
There is no coincidence
somebody else has said this
Extends the country
There is no home
where it’s snowing my brother
Works the intersection no
The body is bending no
salt the country no
1.
I could read lines of your hair
The ceiling above you
A painting in a cave,
rudimentary and full:
that we are sheltered, and we carry shelter with us
if only in a picture loose
from it's frame
2.
The body extensive
The timing off
We are entering a new season
says my father on the phone,
in mourning, in anticipation
What is owed is infinite,
so never paid in full
Presents itself in a mirror, access denied—
or glass, riding underground:
to look through the face
and passing pillars for the light of the next
station full of strangers
Still, they scan for somebody familiar,
knowing they’ll be strangers
3.
Solid liquid state of being around
All is debt, all collapses
into debt
The bottomless pocket of being around
Plan, accrue, grieve the plan
4.
The curse is abundance ends
The abundance of afternoon
Playing spades—and shouting—
at each other
And just before it's over, a mirage of
Separation
Sometimes across the sky
And then, the sun descends
Robert David Carey
Robert David Carey is a writer, teacher, and labor organizer currently based in Madison, WI, though he has lived many places and worked many jobs. Check out his work forthcoming this winter in ctrl+v journal and TriQuarterly. He also edits an experimental journal called In the Fold, which you cannot read.