Is that you, wandering still, and lonely as the hill’s
heist of paspalum in your evening bag? Everything
about you is disappearing, your soft shirt shoulders
shimmying like revolution. I’d call it Platonic but
the evanescence of adventure freed from the every
days of nothing is happening. We make love, get
coffee. Sometimes we clean the sheets. When I
want to think of love, I think of you. And Grass
lands, at 20 cents a stalk. Burning. Out in the
Open, the wolves tearing at your attention, foxing:
“One other thought you should go on living.” Two
bob a stalk leads your numberless shadows into my
own dim territory, You Sunless Wonder! Even if it is
better than nothing, even if you don’t have to like it.
For one other thinks you should come inside now.
Bring your friends without object, your plutonium
stick. It’s late, and everyone else is asleep, quivering
over the inheritance of collicky one-night brides.
Terror. Anxiety. Courage. Justice. “Fidelity severs the
truth of a love from the world.”