Remembering Tracy

slipshod summer flushing in cheap

Mexican heat you dilute the coffee

with eyedrops. There are dolphins

massing in this scowl flashleaping

from the oceans they belong to. I

drink, often now that nothing not

even a streetsign was named after

you. Nothing about death is beautiful

and when I sit shut in the closet tickled

by a freefall of your clothing I can

only smell revolvers. Everything is

made of wire after a suicide. My body

warm since springtime is complaining

some things should not be cast in metal.