a hired skip tracer fingered a lonely page
in his old address book
and plotted disposable conversations.
he took the razor over his past
and came back complete.
beforehand the temperature sunk to zip zero
and stayed that way for decades
intricately whistling ripped notes of crystal ice.
every morning a swayback nag with elk’s teeth
turned the tables on the night
[on the radio a little boy hung himself on a string last week
in a little shack on the plantation]
a female pachuco type remembered the mink coat
she lost in a flash flood
and stared at the agent extra hard, distraught.
private eyes blinked
slowly taking in small
dreams of somewhere…
Julian Isaacs
Picture Nick Victor