And here was the burn, its window smoke glaring

up at the house’s brow. Blown-out glass leaving

a dark tetris of mouths. I knew a boy

who sheared his own sheep for a long-shouldered coat—

he only took it off to dance. He would take girls

into the woods and allow them to wear it only

if naked. You could bend down in it and become

road kill. Ass up. We all lined up to become dead

and animal. Then—grease fire, one day in fall

an explosion down his family’s farm road, what

did he bring out, yes just the cream-colored coat

otherwise naked, sheepskin smothering him

through the blast. His pale nipples piqued like bird beaks

open through the heat. The way he jumped

over the rubble was like dancing. His name was a common one.