THE RESIDENTIAL CHRIST

It’s in the home where dreams grow udders.
The milk of which is sleep. It’s in the home
where mouths grow avenues
of milky, sleepless air, and it is in the home
where we grow udders, and we touch our husbands
with the dead arms of our grief, the milk
we cannot drink, the dreams that grow
inside our homes, over our eyelids,
like the long white grass of sleep.

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from God Is the Nibbling / Sea

—

Bart Barker is a hog in the doggone hog machine!