Part III

we spent the winter
mourning the loss
of things that were not ours to begin with.
Waiting for the summer to bring comic relief.
Winter nights seemd to
be made of solid coal.
Days were almost as austere.
I try to keep the horizon in my pocket,
fidgeting with it, as if eliciting death.

Folly enterprise, yes,
geological sureys with knife and teaspoon.
Gloved hands inventory the pantheon of poisons
dead tongues and forgotten anthems.

"its ok with fish
'cause they don't have any feelings"they sang
with a languid grievance.

Nothing has more privacy
than imagined silences, intimate,
the ones you keep to yourself,
sworn foe to the world bequeathed to you
with so much love and indifference.

As a young man, he often dwelled
among tombstones, dreaming
of the collapse of generations
yet unshaken by wars fought over
the most threadbare of claims.

We're all assistants to our own panics.
Sentinels at the watchtower that presides
over our abysses.
If we were only to leave a trail of slime behind,
boy wouldn't that be something?
at least it shines in the sun
for a brief moment.