I wake from a bad nap
with a crick in my neck to the end
of a heavily edited version of The Godfather.
Brando’s bloated face is all orange peel
and smiles and then he’s dead in the tomatoes.
We shudder sudden and I think we must be
on a train car in the middle of Sicily, not
hurling ourselves over the emptiness
of Texas. Deep in the heart. I drift again
after awhile, dreaming the Archangel Michael
Correleone–in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
Amen–bowing at the font of his son.
Fredo, Sonny, Luca Brazi: all sleeping with the fishes.
And the long slow crawl of Texas unspooling
and no runway for miles.