after the funeral, I pace
from ripped couch to window,
thick clouds, no coal spun light, electric
lines downed by blowing blackness.
mimics falcon’s cry at midnight,
the giant cottonwood groans,
drops senescent limbs,
earlier today I worked
the false-light slot floor
of the Dancing Eagle Casino,
sirens and jangling quarters,
in a begging-for-luck murmur,
a man telling his date scorpions
kill themselves sometimes during wind storms
by stinging themselves
over and over in the head.
But you drove into the canal,
drowned in that old Camaro,
with electric windows seized by water
and too much—.
Uncle, I sing you back on this
waning gibbous moon, saw
a truck on the freeway as I drove home
this afternoon, a flatbed trailer filled
with pruned branches of trees,
wheels bouncing over potholes,
hundreds of individual leaves fluttering
and waving at me as if
they were somehow able to stay alive.