Smears Made by the Mailbox Dusk Boys

I am still learning the physics
of this neighborhood
to which I've woke—
burned into the ink of dusk.

I own the mailbox made to
swallow the endless arm.

They tried to crush it
in a drive-by
but it broke
their
baseball bat.

A star
and the universe receiving its
hyped-up postage
will not outlive
the complimentary coffee cups
draining themselves at the entrance
of my temple.

And furthermore:
that night you asked me
what it was I saw in death—
I must confess
I was actually wide awake
and heard you well.

I just had no way of detaching for you
the death before birth or the sleepy birth
I know to be
dully aglow
thereafter.

I had no way of depicting for you
aisle five of La Rosa Market.