who is not face-down in a ditch with a boulder between his eyes;
\nfor Stephen who is also not the “father of American music,” who shares<\/p>\n
his name, but not his grief–that Stephen says, Bring my brother back, bring him for me<\/em>–; this is for you, Stephen, who is neither the one on whom the rocks descend, in your hotel room, far from your California home, holding your mother’s ashes the window as though for a storm of stones, who cuts off the lights, pulls for you, Stephen, who ditched your brother at your mother’s funeral; for you, now running wild through the mountains that sever your old city from its wilderness; Stephen, who wants no one back no more than you want to be found, the way sing in the dark, Stephen, how you call your shadow Gary<\/em> and tell him how, once, and drink him in with your face pinched against the liquor’s sting, before hurling him Stephen, how you howl into your shower and scream in your car, how you lay the hands of the lover you abandoned in San Francisco, the one who doesn’t want they are not even your mother’s, her palms like river stones to your cheeks flooded through the crematory window in your dreams and how you always dream to his mouth, set his head heavy against the frame, Stephen, how it’s only a rack have them, You’re close, but no cigar, sad man, lost friend–I’ll be home To-Morrow<\/em>, receive my spirit<\/em>, the first Stephen cries as he falls asleep beneath a man-made about the origins of light to itself. There’s a song inside you, Stephen, it’s stuck singing to hear, your mouth open before your crashed-out mirror,
\nback<\/em>, that Stephen grieves an empty doorway, that Stephen says Don’t you cry<\/p>\n
\nnor the one in whom the Civil War never goes out; this is for you, Stephen, alone<\/p>\n
\nin their urn to your chest like an ugly doll; for you, Stephen, who watches through<\/p>\n
\nthe power plugs from their eye sockets, and sings to himself in the dark; this <\/p>\n
\nStephen, who kicked your dogs out of your house one blackout night, dogs <\/p>\n
\nthis is for you, Stephen, who bites and claws at every hand that takes yours; for you, <\/p>\n
\nwe all just want to be found, finally, so we can stop running–: and how you do <\/p>\n
\nyou had a brother, how you name your whiskey glass for him, Stephen, drink to him <\/p>\n
\ninto a mirror, before admiring the stars he becomes on the floor of your hotel room;<\/p>\n
\nyour hands to your face and touch your fingers to your lips knowing they are not <\/p>\n
\nanything to do with you anymore, sick liar<\/em>, how they tremble, your hands, knowing<\/p>\n
\nwith fever as a child, Stephen, how you still see her body turning to smoke <\/p>\n
\nyour father in your doorway as you turn in your sleep, watch him lift his fist<\/p>\n
\nwith your one coat when you wake; Stephen, you have no answers and will never<\/p>\n
\nthe other Stephen sings, Don’t you cry for me<\/em>, that Stephen sings. And Lord,<\/p>\n
\nmountain; Stephen, you tell yourself of love the way darkness tells myths <\/p>\n
\nin your throat like a dead bird, like a stone, a song you know won’t survive <\/p>\n
\nyour mouth, a lantern now black, burned-out blind by the fire inside.<\/p>\n