In the seething almost Indian heat
of an exaggerated July in the city
the remaining inhabitants cautiously

To look at beauty and never make it yours.
If it weren’t this way you’d look at yourself
that is you’d have nothing more to look at,

There she is turned into a lollipop
a large egg-shaped lollipop,
not passed around, but twirled in the mouth,

Very simple love that believes in words,
since I cannot do what I want to do,
can neither hug nor kiss you,

Surely it’s ridiculous maybe even scandalous
that I feel such overpowering envy
for the eleven-year-old son who’s dozing

You sit at the head of the table
heady with wine,
and hold forth,

My house is mine:
the choice of menu,
the radio and television,

Why do they lie down
when I shoot them?
Such open,

And so,        my father rode the devil
out of the Kawasaki        1300-cc six-cylinder
I’d wash Sundays.        We, the Kingdom Riders.

Last night, sensing the signs, Australia’s long-
time light-welterweight champ Kostya Tszyu 
threw in the towel on his last title fight