[As with all Mike Sammons voicemail poems, incomprehensibilities are bracketed
and all line and stanza breaks are mine]
The bricks here build and contain me.
I fly through the apartment like a bird with clipped wings.
Like an ant with an airplane; like a moth with a bulb.
The candles keep burning and flickering
the way Mexican girls will dance in the night
and say sweet things in my ear
and smell just like lilacs and roses.
We’ll die six more times before we will die,
and somewhere our bones will dissolve like a fog.
One forgets about rivers and oceans and trees
and dreams of fast days of liquor and wine
and “I love you” under trees and under suns.
When I die I’ll take everything with me,
and my bones will be the glass in your morning window
[?] and glowing with the early dead sun.