January: Year-day 10

           
                                             
                                             
January: Year-day 10
                                                        
They don't like me out there.  I don't know why.
Oh, they'll be sure to use me though.  They'll make
their errors and--tough, if I hit the sky--
I'll just have to somehow fix them, and take
it all as I can, though I'd like to cry,
like to grab the winds & the clouds/ and quake
them, terrorize with my bloody right eye
those pasty faces that made my skull ache.
                                                       
Am I America?  Certainly.  No.
A little of this; a little of that:
bone of dinosaur, wing feather of crow,
corona of daffodil, tooth of rat.
If you want me, I'll be raking the leaves:
a man with nothing but arms up his/ sleeves.
                                                      
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