They Will Sew the Blue Sail

of all the things your head can be | Tony Mancus

your head is a bedframe, you bend it with weights and solder the sealpoints, hands like two bags of coffee – the burlap is busted, the three-legged race has committed your memory to a room in a small town buried in the green of a valley next to a trickle of river that never grew up enough to compete as its name. the waves of ambient noise and spilled juices. a slack string of letters you childwrite the walls with each wax melted car. i call the shapes out-out to their crimes. who put the tailor’s chair next to the dummie? who stuck the pins in the spine of the dress? who slept along the seams of the metal and numbers of bus windows put out by rocks and caresses – the dirt in the shoe and the picture on the mantle of a bird that you knew once, caught fire among a series of unlit candles