Grasshopper

By Carolyn Gelland

Grasshopper’s ears
live in their forelegs.
If one of two
membranes is destroyed,
she only finds
him by
a series of mistaken
flights.

That girl, stoned
to zero, one,
one, zero,
sat on the front steps
of the Forty–Second Street
Library
ten years ago, picking
pills from her vomit,
re–popping them.
Dead in six months, you think.
I saw her yesterday —
still looking for the last
judgment that can find
someone
to resurrect.