Punctured doll heads.
Black baby dolls. And white ones. The limbs
of angels in old tires. Mounds of shoes.
Belts deflated plastic
snakes, handbags heaped on a curb.
Gloves wave from vacuum cleaners.
Our lives some giant thriftshop, useless.
A gilt cross dangles, winks and leers
from plastic Mardi Gras beads. Jesus
is nowhere to be found.
Or Buddha. The Messiah
promised by Hassids. There are only
outlived forms. A tree of clocks.
God of mercy, why did you put
this one small amputated foot
in a rusted refrigerator?
Who wore the silver brocade
party dress? Owned the stuffed bunny?
I'll ask who I can.
I want to knock
on your door,
Tyree Guyton, say this street
in Detroit could be anywhere,
split by symbols and lies.
Dead children's eyes.
No turning back.
We're meant to live here.