Clear & Present
The prostitutes are having a good day.
The earth turns over into springtime, and
the morning opens like a can – frayed
and scalloped, floating in oil. You’ve lost
your youth, and the pale reproachful waitress
needs a new sweater. It is not enough
to drain the heart of Poetry; one must
go out into the desert, convalesce.
Our Lady of All the Angels offers
a ride, but who can afford it? And now
it’s not so cold at night. Our bitter and
colossal interests decompose; and slow
as Love, uninterruptible, there slurs
the Edict that buds turn into honey.