knowing another
is
near,
a wise man, singing.
Never say drunken angry visionary.
I knit the floating mouth
to the sheep called nobler.
We should all
be
behind bars.
I am the commuter
no matter how unreachably far away.
Burrowing a tunnel
through the dump,
please erase sleep from this dream.
Not a tear was shed all spring.
The springs grow shorter.
I hold my breath in my hand.
Why do I bother to speak?
Make love to a moose, maybe.
I can imagine a wife
serving dinner
of lightbulbs
&
garbage-cans.
How do you like your mashed potatoes?
With pins in them.
Pretty soon I am talking
to the secretary
of her personal secretary,
a faithful wife, in herself,
a jaspered morning.
So close I came to you
each moment I was alive:
summer of turnstiles,
unnatural waltzes
with funereal jurors.
In the pink lobby
the abortion got away.
Large soft brown discs.
Now it
is
quiet in the bar:
