Lost Highway

Coffee brewed from ashes
Of crows, crows who perch
On Keats’ grave.
Not the poet,
The taxidermist Keats,
The one from Spillville.

The woman who kept
Her husband stuffed,
Was she in the coffee too?
They called the mayor
Daydream Johnnie.
The florist who cultivated

Black roses, the mechanic’s black
Tracks on the rug.
At the Last Stop Inn
On Deadman’s Curve,
Coffee’s made fresh,
Taken coffin dark,

Steaming the veined mirror
Reflecting the receding
Dust devils in the gray
Dirt parking lot
With a few weeds and
Nothing else in sight.