you blunt horses. you casper ghosts. your dust jackets, creased sheets cold. auburn wool pockets carve blossomed boats. simple sandpaper. cobblered coats. and you became bones. and my brothers will burst into baskets of orange fruit; my sister will tame all the beasts she holds high; my mother will break bricks to weather her windows; my father will worry until he goes blind; and we all will sleep at the bottom of the river. i’ll sing sonata, bring the frost-bite, bury bones, i’ll call niagara, down the house lights, and stay home. stop your novels: catch a cold, dig your gold.