The Trailhead

Song of the Husbands for Henry All winter the kind husbands hover like mortgaged angels. One smells gasoline in his sleep, would be my lover. They want me to be well. Specimen, they say, and mean endearment. I row into the flood. The vodka turns the lemon to crystal, the carp turn the pond to shit and hunger, the lingerie turns the trunkful of lingerie into a special trunk. And the husbands, the husbands If asked they will install a water feature. I tend my minor art, I push my sorrow cart, the