There is no metaphor in a broken world
waves sloshing on the yacht club dock
on the strenuous geometry of desire
gentle sameness of their topics, all that knows me indefinite as sex
I reach and reach the luscious shore of your island
touch again these things in their absolute scale,
these mere images, shades,
the impetuous dead, driftwood and fall leaves
somber with the terrible size of their underworld,
dark fact of things perception too is on that scale,
angels from within from without stretched as far as you can see
everything you say is as real as the real
I said and stood there tense in my little navy uniform
dear mother to admonish me for all my truth
and waited. And I waited a long time. But no one came.
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