Blues Poem

I murdered the first draft
of this poem

because it reminded me too much of
bad music

A buffalo was hit in the face
with a mallet

(we were
nothing but wind
in empty houses)—

I sat on the porch this morning thinking about
zombies

watching the fog creep
across the

ground

The night was very old
and it spoke to us then

for the first time in
many many

years