The last day I spent with my brother

He asks if Lubbock was built on a hill.
I tear the cigarette filters off for him, his pills
scattered on my counter like a galaxy.
An ancient needle taps against
an even older teacup; the hazy smoke he makes,
the smell of dope and pregnant paint.
I feel as if I've been invited to the king's fox hunt.
His hiker's pack is full and damp, he only coughs "Alaska"
between tics and gentle velvet laughter.
A fishing boat, or crab deck, or any dry spot
big enough to tuck his body into sleep --
it is this distant moldy home he's after.
I'm making him read "Junky". He's on the final chapter.
The skin around his eyes is bubble gum.
I watch him push the pills into his arm.
The television's on, they're selling plans,
they're singing to my brother and me. The room
is hot and cold at the same time. He sighs.
I try to tell him how it feels to shed a rhyme,
or what it is to wake up to a bird's song and not worry.
But we sit together, lunch in bags between our feet,
and the web some spider'd spent epochs to build
taps against the back of my neck. We perch,
our backs against the wall. Falafel balls
and baba ganouge; Phillip holds the spoon
like a broken limb, his hands are glowing
in the heathen noon light from the doorframe.
A bird sits on the window. It is graceful as a pineapple.