He was hit back of the head for a haul of $15,



a Diner’s Club Card and picture of his daughter in a helmet



on a horse tethered to a pole that centered



its revolving universe. Pacing the halls, he’d ask







for a blow job he didn’t want. The ward’s new visitors



didn’t know this request was all the injury



had left him to say, and would be shamed or pissed,



a few hitting him as he stood with his mouth







slightly open and large frame leaning in. His wife



divorced him for good and blameless reasons. He would not



be coming home to share his thoughts on film and weather,



or remembering her any longer than it took to leave a room.







He liked ham. Kept newspapers in drawers and under his bed,



each unread page hand-pressed flat. And when it snowed



he leaned into one of the sealed, unbreakable windows,



a cheek to the cool glass as he held his fingers







over his mouth and moaned low and constant like the sound



of a boat on the far side of a lake. When he died



they cut him open to see how his habits had been rewired



and so tightly looped. Having known him they were afraid







of what can happen when you cross the lot to the office



or pull up to a light and thump the wheel as you might



any hour. If you stare at the dyed



and beautiful cross sections of a brain, it’s natural







to wonder how we extract the taste of coffee



or sense of a note accurately found and held on an oboe



from this bramble. On Duke’s slides they circled



the regions of blight which explain







why almost all behavior we recognize as human was lost,



but not why a man who’d curl into a ball



like a caterpillar when barely touched, could only ask



for sex, for intimacy, for the very thing







he could least accept and lived twelve years without,



no embrace or caress, no kiss on the lips before sleep,



until he died in the lounge looking out on winter sky



that seemed eager to snow all day but didn’t.





