“Twelve Labors”

I spent last year talking to stars, afraid

They might talk back.

We rescued a baby dachshund in Weimar

Texas. My mother still remarks it slept in her sock.

I tried to count the steps I took—

Ten makes a good foot? Twelve?

On the radio, an ad for another radio.

This is how I will make my living, living.

Father, dad as I like to call you,

Sir, who I was not named after, will

The rest of the men with theories

About stars birth

An etymology? A door

I can not go through creaks

All my friends are writing narrative poetry

The body Ajax wore

The armor that fell

A mountain

They studied

They were young

I just got a library card

A lover

How to read

The word image

To call every bird

By its name

All my friends are writing narrative poetry

About the body and its armor

Who am I to say where skin stops

How much flesh you should show

I haven’t written a poem in months

Not since the shortage

Of war crimes

Reversed the theory of objects

The tax on Burgundy

Bled me dry

Dock workers

Wet to their knees

Frogs march

Do you hear their parade on Roman roads

A keystone supports the curving

Arch