11 a.m. Aubade. v Cleb at 33.

11 a.m. Aubade: V. Cleb at 33

   Eyecandy leaves V. Cleb's screen door open
   lets every fruit fly in the county in. In jean shorts,
   in an arms-tore-out sweatshirt, Eyecandy
   shinnies down the mountain
   past Cleb's oxeyes, his blowup
   pool, the flowering satellite
   dish. Past one grocery cart, twenty-four tulip
   branches. Through a hundred you were here honeybees.

   Cleb ass-drags up, grips the particleboard TV stand.
   Through the screen, Cleb
   blows. He hotboxes his filterless.

   Eyecandy her clove, the stub she pockets.
   The joint the fishers she passes pass. Who drop
   one then two
   dynamite bottles in
   the lagoon dump. Who eye--You sweet--the purple mouth
   on the back of her neck.
   Eyecandy bites her thumb
   stabs it into the bottleneck of
   this
   very
   second--
   Never put a chicken-shit Mayday note in a pint of Boone's. Any
      drunk fuck might
   save you.

   Cleb drunk-chicken-breakfasts at his card table.

   Eyecandy kneels at an open basement
   window at the head of the hollow,
   her mouth an O against half-strung
   venetian blinds.

   To the blackjack boy--shrunken arm rocking in the socket,
   shrunken hand curved, the good one deals
   she hollers--You best count Cleb in.
   Wads of Washingtons rubberbanded to his thigh, Cleb
   karate kicks in his side yard. He war
   cries--Kiai.

   BLAM
   Sky high go
   the baby fish
   swim bladders
   BLAM
   Gut-deep wade
   those fishers

   Eyecandy's brass hoops
   the last of a lemon icebox
   on a kitchenette counter.

   Cleb kung fu-fingers the mountain echoes--

   "Likewise wiseass."

   Cleb kung fu-fingers the mountain
   the mountain just forgets. Forgotten too--Eyecandy's brass hoops, a
      lemon
   icebox on Cleb's kitchenette counter. Hush.

   Hush. Yonder dynamite fishers on their backs asleep in lowfog.
      Shh. Yonder
   Jack o' Lantern mushrooms on a felled trunk like lights on a barge.
      How fishers
   conjure brook trout in the middle of the late morning lagoon dump.

   V. Cleb cries. In his side yard, there in thin boxers, karate
      kicks.

   Eyecandy with the blackjack boy. The blackjack boy--cinder block
      arm curls
   in a flooded basement, cash strapped to his thigh, spade in his
      chest pocket.
   Eyecandy through the rusted bars painted over. Put her inside. Put
      her lips, a
   smear of coral, on his dick. Put her inside. She slips him a
      slip--You ought count
   Cleb in.

   No, find her tiptoe under a burned attic
   window frame at the foot of
   the hollow. Say something.
   Eyecandy's mouth's no more than a line.

   A little prayer. Unstrung
   behind venetian blinds, Cleb makes a finger steeple
   on the card table--She put
   a chicken-shit Mayday note in
   a pint of Boone's. Any
   drunk fuck may fuck
   her. Listen. Any
   drunk fucking fuck.

   Balancing stick in hand,
   Eyecandy paces a felled trunk, almost
   takes a spill. She pulls
   her thumb from the bottle
   neck of this very second. Look
   at all this spill out around her-fishers calling
   Sooie to the purple mouth on the back of her neck, lagoon dump
      spilling,
   clover going
   yellowyellow
   gone.

   Fishers pull one
   then two dud
   dynamite bottles from the lagoon dump.
   One holds his breath, passes the roach. Eyecandy hotboxes
   her clove. Cleb his filterless.

   Through the screen Cleb counts a
   hundred you don't know shit honeybees,
   an upside-down-one
   wheel-spinning grocery cart. The
   countless
   tulip branches.

   In jean shorts, in Cleb's armstore-out
   sweatshirt, Eyecandy
   climbs the mountain to Cleb's oxeyes, his blowup
   pool, flowering satellite dish. Cleb
   grips the particleboard TV stand--steady,
   boy--crashes back
   on the floor mattress. Eyecandy leaves
   V. Cleb's screen door open--