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?’