Now,
the unfamiliar cast of mind
becomes pine,
moonshine, and the high alcohol
of my blood.
Who would be there—
anticipation
of the opera, seeing
and being seen,
is a feeling extinct
except in some sectors,
like, here—
a barefoot youth,
unknown,
steps into what would be my kitchen.
She manages hot toddies on a stove
I once leaned against
and drunk said
who knows what,
not yet climatized to critique,
not yet the smaller, sooner reward.
I desired to desire to hold
myself upright, to shout through
Mayakovsky’s megaphone
of my youth.
I’d learn to behave
and change my head.
We met as tourists.
Each edge was not a joke,
like they are now.
My psychosocial swain.
My bawdy love with your pearl
handled pistol patrolling the hall.
You left for town
and left and
never came back.
It isn't the lack, (remind us)
not the ship or the rival ship,
the possible
expanding, but all apodicticity
that can’t be heard. So what
never had to
end can end.