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.

No door.