Today we are going into shelter,
we are going underground to discover the passage that leads
to the next world. We will be happy there,
or we will not worry about happiness; we will make neat designs

Sometimes love’s vagrancy (whatever you call it) 
overwhelms all but the most robust subscribers, 
and, dishonest as it may sound, the whole cramped enterprise 

Old cadences, cracklings along the sight line,
your arms thrown back, I remember this,

I went down to Missolonihgi
with my oldest friend—this was a long time ago—
and we visited Byron’s house,

Cool spring, and a fine freshness,
burred and fruity airs along Canal,

Yes, I want someone to know me well,
better than the foreman at Ford Electra
knows the chips

The troubled entrepreneurs of evening—
the palm-readers, the Mexican bracelet salesmen,
the girl who dances on a sheet of tin—

You are on my mind always these days,
always in the high cavities of the wind

On the pale morning I left town
I was thinking about women,
and later, in the Rockies where work was scarce,

after Nicole Sealey

o bitch. my good bitch. bitch my heart.