It seems like they here, though
if they here, they somewhere.

The stories I told for two hours
run barefoot over broken glass
southern greasy peanuts, rust
unctuous old red clay roads,
straight yellow pine galleys,
dollar general in cotton houses
every bicycle meth white misfit
south georgia tractor salesman
brought me a necklace
fingering the clasp with a scythe-sliced knuckle 
when we ramshackled into town. 

She’s buried by a highway in the gravel
a chain link fence
trumpet vine shroud
pennies on a tablet stone 
No one knows her
at the ihop, or the shoe carnival, or the cash express
we took pictures of magnolia trees pretending
live oaks hanging with dusty fungus
yucca plants and lilies, peafowl in the cradle

Catholics with a spent wedding cigars 
waved at us from the sidewalk outside
sacred heart and a line of georgia cheerleaders
with big mommas in tights & tunics jaywalked
across greene street where up in the balcony
bedroom she prayed, God, let me be famous writer. 

Here was a sacrament
here the problem of belief
a cracking white column
without sentiment, hookworms
here the dark barn, the cattle pond
here crutches and bottles,
the sword, the stinger
and then jubliee