I found myself in a story
without suspense, only
one deaf falcon circling deafly, and that
wild college girl next door
screaming at her mother on the phone.
My heart, a golden lobster, a star
in a grave, some
hot blood running underground...
and all my early daydreams loosed
like termites in the walls
of some deserted church.
Oh, I recognized my agony.
The howling dog of daylight life.
The years of lust had opened up
a permanent inn for phantoms
in my brain.
Then I turned forty.
Every morning, sweeping out the shadows
from the cobwebbed corners, raking
the leaves from the gutters,
the hair from the drains...
And sleep, the sweet
rolling water of its e's.
A stroll through the beautiful ruins
of my on dreams.
A hardware store
in a town without men. Whole
shelves dedicated to wrenches, gleaming.
And no reasons
to lock the door.