Supertelephone

“Can I speak to Horatio?” I know that now
you have a nest of doves in your bladder,
and your crystal motorcycle flies
silently through the air.

“Papa?” I dreamed that your flask
swelled up like the Tupungato river;
it still holds your anger and my poems.
Pour me a drop. Thanks. Now I feel fine.

TH be seeing you both very soon. Come to meet me
with that frog I killed at our country house
in San Juan; poor frog—we stoned it to death.

It looked at us like an ox, and my two cousins
finished it off; later it had a funeral
with skillets banging, and roses followed it.