Singing glory from a high rise
while waiting for explosions,
brown toasting bread in red-hot
iron, and keeping up with stars
who get more sleep than me
on the other side of the night.
It's a way to live, a place to go,
a thing to be; with no feet in
my socks, poison in the wells,
and children born on kitchen
floors.
The things that last forever
go especially slow.
The things that happen fast
happened long ago, never,
or are happening right now.
Gone.
Here there is one cloud,
thin-pretending it has
done nothing wrong,
with the hunger of the
ashtray and fat rain
always about to fall.
And me, balancing history
books on my chin; naked
green everywhere, comic
displays, and tongues of
the strangers in musical
graves.
Boyhood bravery bought
me hot, silent lust for the
price of quiet, lonely play.
And I've always missed
the summer, though it turns
against me every year.