Baptism for the Dead

don’t take my name to the water
a soul with no body to enter

the dead don’t share skin with
the living—no conduit between

don’t set me in afterlife
my name is my body

Electricity

The morning roundup’s
a current leaking to earth
without interruption or fault.

Above busted street lights the sun
buzzes to a cuffed line of deportees
—the sheriff’s imbalanced authority.

Any laborer gathered for a tear-out
agrees the pleasure of opening walls
is the view of what’s no longer behind.

The restrained motion of a body caught
within a fence run between language
is a union of shock and memory.

Original appearance in the Kenyon Review

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