I was a quick, wet boy
Diving too deep for coins
All of your street light eyes
Wide on my plastic toys
Then when the cops closed the fair
I cut my long baby hair
Stole me a dog-eared map
And called for you everywhere

Have I found you, Flightless Bird;
Jealous, weeping?
Or lost you, American Mouth;
Big billed, looming?

Now I’m a fat house cat
Nursing my sore, blunt tongue
Watching the warm poison rats
Curl through the wide fence cracks
 [bad word] on magazine photos
Those fishing lures 
Thrown in the cold and clean
Blood of Christ mountain stream

Have I found you, Flightless Bird;
Grounded, bleeding?
Or lost you, American Mouth;
Big billed, stuck going down?