Dana Levin


At the End of My Hours


here I’ m here I’ m here I’ m

here here here here cricket

pulse — the katydidic tick

(and then a pause) tick

(and then a pause) in greening trees — tales

of a gratitude for water, the hollyhock’ s

trumpet Yes, Tenderness

her glove and hoe — her bad trip

love/grief, her medic tent

talking me down, kissed fissures

in the world’ s despair, what I’ d

loved — alive for a while — a day called

Rip and Brood, a day called

Glorious Hour, the long hunt and the worm found


The father died and then the mother died.
And you were so addicted

to not feeling them, you told no one about the clamp
inside —

around the vena cava. Dam against the blood's
trash —

But I've got you now. Trussed at the waist
in a wooden chair,


You’ re gonna strike the match —

You’ re gonna strike it —

Flame the bank up into pods
of fire, be

a masterhand —

And someone said, Gasoline.

Someone said, We have to change the images
inside their heads, said


And motor oil, he bought at a mini-mart.

Refuge Field

You have installed a voice that can soothe you: agents
of the eaten flesh, every body

a cocoon of change —

Puparium. The garden
a birthing house, sarcophagidae —

And green was so dark in the night-garden, in the garden's
gourd of air —

green's epitome
of green's peace, the beautiful inhuman

leg-music, crickets'
thrum —
a pulse