Another car parked sideways
beside a snowbank
in late April.

I hear Leonard Cohen sing
about Suzanne and heroes
in the seaweed.

2016 was a bad year
for music
lovers. Two more go by

since Prince
let the elevaror
bring him down for good.

We talk about omnidirectional
wheels. No one dares
murmur prop walk.

I could be a 360 degree
spinner—would still miss
the stowaway’s gaze.

So laden with meaning,
this wallpaper peels off
in irregular strips

till my hands
are covered
in blood.

What remains vertical
will become souvenir lyrics
I don’t dare sing

aloud. Call it
a ghost poem
with circular sawn lath

and plaster stanzas
that will double
as a raft

for all the vagabonds
who want to join me
on the river as it thaws.

I promise
only wind and current
will propel us then.

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