Issue 58, Summer 1974
I awake, three in the morning, sweating
from a dream of possums.
I put my head under the fuzzy swamp of cover.
At the foot of darkness two small eyes glitter.
Rain falls all day: I remain indoors.
For comfort I take down a favorite volume.
Inside, something slimy, like a tail, wraps around my finger.
Hear the bells clang at the fire station:
not hoses, but the damp noses of possums issue forth.
Passing the graveyard at night
I wish the dead would remain dead,
but there is something queer and shaggy about these mounds.
From the gray pouch of a cloud
the moon hangs by its tail.
At the cafeteria they tell me they are out of persimmons.
I am furious. Who is that gray delegation
munching yellow fruit at the long table?
I reach deep into my warm pocket
to scratch my balls; but I find, instead,
another pocket there; and inside, a small possum.