In a past death, I was a deaf-mute mercenary,
unable to distinguish between "shooting at" & "shooting with."
I was an army of resentful stepsons, each of us sweet as a brass
I was a stain-proof hermit in a beef-pink hermitage,
Before these statues, before there were sculptors or even famous men, before rhododendrons or reflecting pools, before, perhaps, water itself, my father lived in the city of bald tires and overbites. He left it so I wouldn't have to & in leavin [...]