3.
Desolate and clear Washington I can’t see anything.
Restaurants and affairs but space itself is not occult.
Lafayette square just a couple dirty bums redeem us.
Dare whisper in your businessy ear all words are dirty.
Picking through the field-trip trash the way you hate a good rain.
Words are dirty against form, anarchic rains and crud.
Lying islanders, madmen leading respectable lives.
I read instantly on the operating table streets.
Nothing but you, I remember jumping in with such zing.
To go blind in you where something actually is, feel it.
Hold that blue flower, my own flower where no uncle can.
What are memories sans the cleanliness of you or me.
No comments:
Post a Comment