On the other part of the world people
Are getting up, yawning like daffodils ruffled by
The hyperventilating winds against the highways,
Like silken gypsies spread, beautifully valiant people
I will never see; for I am going down into the
Deep basement with the waitresses and yawning bartenders,
For now it is our time to sleep, curl up like a litter of
Puppies for sooty firemen: Though I will not hold hands
With them tonight, nor ever, their silence blares like
The true warmth of a Christmas hearth,
And from here, when my pillow lisps my ear and dreams,
I can say that it is her chest beating like the clock inside
A fairytale’s crocodile: And every bit of her is never, never
Land full of little boys she refuses to serve another dream from
The reservoirs of powdery bosom: How so I see her
There in the beady drapes of the lurid willow’s frown:
An Indian princess, an unsolvable crux- Just the timeless
Muse with scabby knees and chewing gum, a Tom Boy
Who has hidden my love letters in the hollow knot, and gone
Into hibernation with another man sweating away her deciduous
Cycles in a beautiful, unrepeated constellation- Though
I will surely see her again in the brilliance of shadow less morning,
The park wearing a green dress, as I arc over her swinging
With rested attempts, each thing she wears like rivers beneath
My migrations, the commerce of life’s progressing.
The Commerce Of Life’s Progressing
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