the wound of the wounded father is covered over by dead leaves that fall from a branch in his shirt pocket the wound is like a silo being filled and then emptied of grain the wound is like a department store window display being changed, the manikins awkwardly picked up and moved, dressed and undressed. the wounded father lurches through the forest looking for the elk that was part of himself all night he is staggering holding himself up against a birch tree and then another birch tree until he falls and the elk crashes through the brush and also falls and their bleeding makes a stream that flows outward through the roof of my mouth the wounded father is spread out on a table as we gather round we can hear the wound hiss like a rapidly leaking tire but the hiss is hot and full of splinters — each of us chews on one of the father’s fingers delicately as if we were sucking a crab claw and playing the flute at the same time consequently our eating fills the room with odd, hidden cries. suddenly a breeze tears through the city streets the manikins in the window topple over people can’t stop themselves from laughing the grain can’t fit in the silo there is too much grain the roads are blacktopped repeatedly the rivers have been emptied and the water stored in an ear it makes so much sense there’s so much of everything we can’t get there anyway. I’m driving on a road around here and I remember you I see you staggering over there in those trees with the elk you fool, you lonely, gutless sonofabitch you bled all over everything not knowing what to say helpless to staunch your wound — it’s dried all over me it’s old mud full of hair. and not knowing what else to do I drive up and down the road faster and faster as if I could make the planet spin faster and for the fourth time this month I arrive too early to find the doors even in existence but somehow the mouth of the wound closes with the pressure of hot rubber, and mistaken time, and the white fire dreamt in protest.