to that long ago drive to muncie
                              -for Adam Cline
a pack of american spirits gone to the floor.  sliding along the ridge 
of I-70’s tongue,  i remember a winding river drowned my uncle when
mom was small child, its mossy boulders heavy on our minds.
we are speaking less,  your mouth filled with poisonous salamanders
the delicate bones of my inner ear trampled into the mud.
afraid to address you, i look away often, even by telephone.
i am not a good student, as you illustrate humility & brevity.
death is a spectre, death is a spectre in the room that you have grown used to and enslaved. 
i ignore it & continue to love the painting your father made
of the Indian barber years ago.  your skin a damp rice paper,  i hoist your
heavy bones into the air, I am losing the rhythm of your dreams even
while humming.

(c) poem Andre O. Hoilette music, Cameron Farash

George-Papadopoulos