Well, I'm not going to read that because it's too long.
I can't.
It's very bad not to know your way around in a new book,
but it seems to take a while.
This is again I suppose a small erotic poem called This Day
Will Self-destruct.
A man lies down in my mind, we have just made love.
It went historically well, the kind
of hand in glove expertise team workouts can evoke.
Now we lie still and smoke, the ashtray on my belly blue
as chicory and the Dixie cup on the deal Bureau.
True it's a borrowed room.
Third floor walk up as a matter of fact,
foreign enough to enhance the act.
Say its Grand Forks where I've never been.
All this takes place in the head you understand.
I play to win back wicked afternoons
in bed, old afternoons that were shadows on the grass
longer than home runs lofted out of the park.
We smoke.
The chicory blue goes dark, the ashtray deepens,
and the sun drops under the rim the way
it happens like a used up lollipop.
And the room goes blind, and a man, a man
lies down in my mind.