You throw matches on the floor.
I collect antique lard cans.
"You know, some day there'll be an interest
in these, though it will peak, like the tide,
in infinite relief, and b back next day.
But somebody ill surely remember them–
the succinct red of that metal.
Then we drink everything in, avidly,
yet we are not thirsty. Some mechanism declines
our auroras, and so must it even be
until the day of waking up and not finding out.
I'll be a spruce-god by then, but you, you
should still be savoring the advantages
of belated puberty."
...............................And I'll dress you in grass
and sing to you, a song where the words are the music
and the music has no point. Let me chafe your nipple, I…
And time will be hapy. Quiet, runt.
Th world's most astonishing plant couldn't
faze you, nor the fat ogres beyond the icehouse.
Lilies and sweet peas think you're swell.
I even have a nephew who is about
to invite you to the cotillion in Baltimore,
after taking a few more readings, and say,
wasn't it cool the way the alie came up to you,
all combustible, dreadful with tears,
and caped your burning oil well?
You've got friends
out there, more than you know,
but time is running short and we have to do something about it.
How about a nice whistle, something Grandma
can use on her back porch. Or a subscription
to Reader's Digest and the black methane-haunted city.
In any case it will be a peaceful interlude
when you get around to it–limning storm clouds
with the rigor one knows of old
of you–and caution an angered bluebottle
to calm his romantic hopes