Amerigo Sam Anderson
Amerigo with the wrinkled sides and the Mis’ouri River in his hair, skinned the mule on the one side from selling off elephant hides, and all Canada’s iceglooms and pailsheds on his back, carrying her, on, through ice ages of her soaking body— he persists, lumbering and impossible, hood over his head pitying and a sheetmetal breast, red cities inside the chambers of his heart burning in sane—he been at the forge for ages, ol’ Amerigo…
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Amerigo his shoes are longsince highway robbed from him, I saw them washed out into sad Mexico ‘s moldy sea—some old cheese man on the run got em while he were twisting in his sleep, between rocks that still sloop ships to old friend Bretons and rocks that can almost see the Far East, where still you are dreaming, Amerigo— dragon tattoos and plastic milks and closer, silks (and she knows you ran out of money while you were still awake making jokes)—
