I revise

The hardened hand is my
hardened hand.

Where did I put it?
I put it in the freezer
where it froze on the Stoli.

I put it in a hole
up on Naticook Lake

past a frozen scrim
which broke my skin

and drew blood
as I drew out
the perch.

Every road in this town is a
cooling board for dreams
that don't die.

Ghosts everywhere
remain, they live
and breathe and
walk
like men.

They sing like wires
in the winter
wind.

I can't stop
listening.

I will do
thier bidding.

The Chinese bartender
slips the info to me,
scrawled on a
small square napkin:

All your gone friends
are imaginary and
New York City
is forever hell.

I said, OK, sir.
Now another Fogcutter,
por favor,

I've many miles to go
and it's a far cry
till dark.