PERSON Poem: Meeting Jim at Parlour, by Eric Huff

canvas stretched. my eyes –
(moistened, mirrored), like an out of
service city bus.
red neon and a
set of concrete steps into
a basement lounge

a boar’s head on the
wall. someone placed a hat on him.
there’s dust on the teeth.
what was it like in
Japan? here are Bashō’s musings,
here is his heart –

etched into the stones
that are here now, still and then
breathing. now humming.
when he slept here what
wild duck startled him awake? what
cold chill called his name?

Minneapolis,
my hands are in my pockets, a
cold curl of breath –
I still don’t know your
name. the Mississippi River
at night. all empty

save bright eyes shining
from dark alleyways. Bashō!
cracking knuckles, gone.
put your teeth in me,
wild dog of winter’s awful night!
jet lagged by morning.

and what do I have?
dry hands that sting like breaking
ice beneath your feet,
and a cold look back.
the skyline standing completely
still. hands to the sky!