The big B is Bisbee and he’s here, the, the
man without sleeves. He’s a community perhaps,
leaning as if he were leaning in. My desk
is like a pigeon skiffing the fallout
underneath the white skys of Bisbee.
Bisbee, lo. Tuned to our sufferers.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand little pigeons
with sore throats, sneezing, leaning upon
my desk of their suffering mouthes
and waving a crystal into that sky.
We are on our first dry run. I say.
They clamour at the jangle, jangle of his
American physique. It is the only one.
“That is the power and the massage,” says
he, that’s giving it to the pigeons
with his thumbs up in the air.
Let me have your hands, Bisbee. I’ll
take them south, where the pigeons
are burning like wicks. The fall
is the springs in your chair and I
fall in my chair to a certain rest,
to the rest of all your pigeons
crying in the little windows
of little rooms. It is work to
tell some stories, Bisbee. You need
a story stick.