The wall is broken.
A sound not unlike a nail
being driven into solid rock.
A sound like an oblique
water dialect boring a hole
through a glass window. I dreamt
of you last night: tumbling
down a green hillside in Mantua,
Ohio, your baseball glove’s webbing
torn, pants in flames, the oily
luster of your face cascades
a dark shadow over our grass,
which we melt into. I cling to it.
I cling to your garnet eyes.
This broken man-made landscape.
I forget the areas I used to go
for most. Now it is anything:
another empty horizon. A clumped
together effigy, muddied by the rain,
knocked over from the wind.