weathervane 2

not a cock, but a pig
smiling

it’s belly, stamped and bulbous
confuses the wind

its mid-riff
an entire family’s equilibrium

beyond the horizon
which it cannot see

an electric corpse of nothingness
a scarecrow, with its back to the wall
a theater curtain draped in velvet
the backing of all poems, of all scenes and nervousness

in the foreground, a barn
wherein later
a Bible salesman will steal the leg of a girl

wherein later
a wounded grandfather will cart his darling to a land sale

wherein later
the layered shingles of a Swiss creamery are made red

wherein later
I will photograph Mebane’s oldest tree
once from the lowest vantage point possible
(from the perspective of a cat carrier)
once again in front of a light box

The patina ridges of this metal swine, the Grand Canyon in Smithson’s body
is green and turquoise, that of a Soviet montage
or mutiny or hammock or teeth or drunk

his smile, that of a billboard
features not a pig, but a drawing of a pig
advertising the demise of referents, real pigs
conjured just before Salisbury and the truck stops emboldened there
with cheap gas

The ball bearings of this movement, of this pig, the shape of an ice skating rink
or washer, or washing machine disassembled

mount on top of multiple sheets of simple variegated tin. Long diagonals of M’s overlaid
stretching down to the waters
where baptisms will occur, where husbands will curse

this pig matching this weathervane, this rudder of a wreck
sails the aforementioned family through the doors
their satanic and marbled hooves
neither precise nor dancing

stepping over a golden barrel
a charmed chain of yesterday

an immobile pendant pig-shaped
Rocky Mount’s trophy necklace