I miss Slade most, but more I miss
thinking Little was as good as any,
that a body could mean what he says.
Everyone: a hall of glass, shattered,
watch your step, or—reflective,
but of what who knows, look in it
like a pool, remember those? I can’t
care—take the fire ant, take the kerosene,
light to match. Even the ant attacks.
Every day a queen eggs thousands,
new resin bodies twisting
out of the underground, lined up
with the rest of us, looking for work.
I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Love and happiness. Make you do right,
love’ll make you do wrong. How I used
to sing that song.