like desert scopes and married farewells

no songwriter is cautious with streetlamp alimony
bathing or Portugal exhaust fumes like timid,
controlled, parting company in front of the library

materialist failure in the wicked wind where She
spoke to me like a donkey headed to Russia,
not knowing if the voices were perfume or waste

listen,

to the waters of decrepit motion alleys

sapless,

marooned where shelves stand afar
like silver ashtrays defeated by Napoleon’s goslings
no more sacrilegious poets awake at night

memory like tired servants

free from the boundaries of the body
stolen like a grasping rope wastebasket
circular and maladroit patrimony insiders
where Cain and Abel did retire for the evening,
but let the fire burning for the cattle on the path
letting go of legumes and pineapple frozen
like desert scopes and married farewells