I keep my name in the corner of a room.

 

I keep my name in the corner of a room.

only once I put it in the breast of a suit
slipped through to the sewer, pooled cars to the sky
blew down to California where the salt takes your lines
and your life
is in the frame of a Wal-Mart bike.

I drop you off at Friday’s because you can’t remember directions.
I take out my wallet and see that I’m thirteen again.
I ride home and think of what a fool I am

and of the sun. I fall asleep
with a fever in the heat

I wake without roof, bed or walls.
My skin lays beside,
tanned and stretched on the white
ground. I take it, I fasten winged boots and a cape
with which, in the salt, over the course of ninety days
by shadow, time and flight I write my name.