Dendrites 1
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D END RITES
J A Y S N O D G R A S S
2 0 1 5
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©2015 JAY SNODGRASSHysterical Books Tallahassee, FL Thomasville, GA
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for Kristine
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I’ve been here, near youin the water, where everything breaks upon.
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Sometimes the trees never come backafter you’ve taken their fruit. Why would they, with all these people?
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No one knows how long I’ve been away. I thought for a second I had dumped my heart out with the rest of the ashtray. Thank you for the shape I remember.
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Someone drops a brick on the street.It’s late. I look at the hammer I hung upover the mantel. Bruised monument.
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Birds speak to the morningsidewalk, No one knows. I feel the air turn darkagain.
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I think about the sand. Look at a printout of the universe, hold it in my hand. It has a secret taste.
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The ocean and bread. Succorand a sandwhich. Day is the presenceof a star.
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It seems like the leaves take even longerto fall now, longer than the morning. Now everything is strange.
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I’m in a special room in a city of empty glasses.All of it made from the sheer will of cigarettes formed, like a friend, from dying winter, signaled to from the shore.
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I do feel bad for plants in early spring, so much waiting and cold birds, puffed and turning together away in disappointment.
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The priest with two heads toaststhis glass of light, he is not my real fatherwho is a storm at sea, roilingbeneath the stars.
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Sometimes you are late, running.This is not a dream. Keep breathing, it will end.
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Roadside of lines, liniments, pecan groves, citrus tongues, fortified against mouths.
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Smiles are brought to life the way fruit is, with time and a knife. So much laughter in heaven.
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These pills are like little padsto the kickdrum of the upstairs neighbor’sheavy footfalls. Dandelionsand whispers. She’s been dead a weak.
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They’ve buried the phone lineslike desires, sutures of light waitingin the dark for the TV to come back.
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Just above the alter a pulseof light hovers over the rooftopslike psychic wingbeats.
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Tiny layers of skin break off when I walk or shave. fragile motes,radiant snowfall, returning.
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I followed a lie down to the water’s edge where I was supposed to let go of childhood’s darkhair and let him drown.
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Out there, the faces in the grate, are partying with their own ghosts. I’m a candle, lit for its submergence.
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All of these letters make the sound of dying, like a vacuum cleaner, collectinglike a withering black balloon.
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Here is the origin of matter,so much easier to glisten.
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This body is a slowly crumpling envelopeas though in a flame or a fist giving in to the pressure of bad news.
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D E N D R I T E S