it's such a long way down
an elegance in the depth of every compulsion
although I could live
without the graffiti
all those Mastodons and the blood math . . .
and you know each meal
has a magnitude of casualness
followed by the "splitting"
but nobody admits it
the lack of punctuation will continue
the absence of church bells
Even the icicles grow dark as the library closes
In room after room the books disappear . . .
I have a candle and what she left on it
the economic facts--
somebody dousing a cigarette
a shirt fresh out of the cellophane
love is a form of suffering