We
both probably own too much property.
We
could shed some snow. The windowpanes
are
short of breath. Girls with long braids
who
steal souls have left the night shift
and
the seagull tavern’s dartboard is bereft;
the
happy hour is empty, like on-tap dread. We
need
more names for answers we can’t give,
for
abstract uncertainty. The lagoon is
in
a telephone booth we no longer use
it
used to be too fat to fit but an all-around
slendering
has set in, a slendering that drips.
I’ve
had enough of uncollectible trinkets
that
make me frantically unwed. Society
has
pierced my ears and the latitudes are now
incorporated,
like three-piece clouds. Vistas are
musty
or too loud; you don’t wear a suit?
—
Star Black