The shouts

Somewhere, of course, someone is dancing.
No, no; not us. Door handles bark and women seem
Like babies. Moon. We hopscotch through
Prognosticating streetlights, light in their pockets,
Drunk and sad. The shouts
Prism into snakes of light and snakes
On snakes and light again: one day I’ll kiss
Your golden face in meadows green and happy
Be so happy. Drunk’s autograph, its moon,
Is too exposed; he signs an affadivit,
Carrying its kevlar to the door. Christ, 
This is so painful, Sam. Now: do we dream?
What can we do? We eat the saddest food
And hunt only, only when we are so hungry.

    Of Manzanilla and Olives at La Venencia

‘Of course, looking into the face, your face,
Grief puppets the fact before it’s said.
I see… O Love! How much more than
a cool drink you count me in… Once Love!
How are you now this circus mirror
Which I see, now, is simply: mirror
Of my own construction
And reflection, spawn from and breeder of
Unalchemical thinking, which is… thinking’s excess
Into which my vision must cascade forward,
And from which sight, I fear, has no return?’