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All Saturday afternoon
the clown drifts. I am
not sure there is
a cure. Should we
think of Canada or
another card? The sun
near what appears to be
the young Christ? Wind?
What does it matter?
A certain person and
then a tornado, a ribbon
far away? She has
lunch only it's boring
at night and tomorrow
morning a child takes
off through alfalfa and
you are tired of light.
Do not toss the haze
-- dark, wet -- down
the alley. Black trees:
I get up in blood, have
to smile that there's
a city where I lost days.
What does it matter?
Who takes the sea
and laughs briefly, gets
up, paces the blue rug
and comes in your
raincoat to the reclining
limp edge of a cure,
a taxicab here in the dust?
I cannot possibly
guide you down there
around a sea of kindness.
The lame dog changes
plans and I am happy.
What does it matter?
The snow in clear
light sometimes does
reach you, an armory
for a moment. If only
people looked glad
that this particular
harvest has suddenly
got to you. You should be
writing on pewter something
grand, a little island;
a piano of gold.
Escape the gray end
of desire! Protest
the room although it
sounds better to be
an angel. Oh,
in the fall I tried
to tell you of disaster,
some great sadness,
tons of it.
What does it matter?
You passed over the painful
excitement. Our masks
are more beautiful than
the apple, the cinema,
the clouds, the cold snow,
the clown's. Around me
heat rises, dreams.
Light comes on, reaches
down and the black sky
in your lids streams
through the dark red
inside me.
What does it matter?
There were fronds
heavy in a town
by the sea.
I hear the old door,
the young Christ.
They stretch and we
are tired. The walls
hardly ever hold.
We've got to give
the oaks more than
night! Whole days
go by and we
arouse the harbor,
walk into a theater.