little frances,
you look just like your daddy.
so lucent,
so brazen
you channel the air
in each room
and make the royal blood boil.
as if you
could regenerate cigarette solitaire
he played
during crushed can days
in aberdeen
or swallow each and every
poisoned guitar string
recovered from
the heroine's throat
when he sings.
sweetie,
be aware that they known nothing.
no one knows how painful it must be
to breathe the sloe-eyed shadow
and call him
daddy.
no one knows how shameful it must be
for the missing piece
that needs him
so badly.
someday he'll find his way to you
through a tune unknown
a tune unplayed,
someday you will share more
than the simplistic syllables of a name.
painfully draw your breath to say it.
...
a greenhouse, an icebaby
and through the cobalt night he came
suffering within
the confines of each
and every dream
he admits plain
that every embrace of you
stings.
yet he tries to save you.
"i am carrying frances
from the greenhouse," he says,
"i am carrying frances from
the greenhouse"
and he places
her on the flaming
lawn as she screams.
