You leave me
at a bar table,
on a summer night,
to smoke outside
with some guys,
and I watch you
go across the street—
(there you are,
standing under the yellow light;
hot rain); you looked
so happy in your perfect
new dress; Distance?
What a pity,
to love you,
and never have said it
What a funny time
to rupture! There’s no passion
left on earth today!
No stench of you! No parting kiss!
There’s a red pair
of underwear balled up
in the corner
of my top drawer. Some gorgeous proof
that you were here.
I make up a world for myself
to dance around
any subject I like. I don’t want
this life, is a cocky thing to say,
as I press my forehead
to the cool window, watching
before burning out
into the night. It’s
so odd, I think to myself,
how easy, how demeaning,
it is to be broken. I sweep
snow off the porch,
I sweep until it’s bare, I sweep for all eternity,
and watch life take a toll on me.
I sweep to the sound of deception,
then merriment. I sweep until
I dream—in one I’m offing
myself in some slow cinematic trope,
and in the other we’re running
through the woods towards
a small pink house, a small existence,
yes, a good pastoral life.
A Romantic Sonnet!
Dejection hurts by the lake! And by the train!
And in my apartment! Traversing across
some bogged down field! It hurts the mind,
the dream, the thought and idea. There
is no mind. There is no thought. I see the world
with a blank eye. The honk of the car, so sincere.
Depression, has come to make a life of observation. Light
bounces off a surface. I drink an iced espresso.
The air smells of laundry. The city drips.
The orange salt salmoning the packed snow.
No lake. No dream. No sky. No field. You are the lake,
the field, the dream, the sky. You are the fucking
divinity of Nature! But I cannot see what flowers are at my feet!