Because water and sewer mains are destined
In corruption to flow together
Toward death's vast leavening.

Maybe the moon is made of ice, not cheese,
And that’s why it’s so frightening.

We were having a picnic by the river.
We watched it land, their glistening ship
Fat as a Buick. The aliens were suntanned

What the sun does to a flower,
Leaching its all-precious

The cat run over and killed in the street
Came back to life and stood on its feet:

Nakedness isn’t guilty,
But it’s never unaware. At night
The white blossoms go on

Professor Felicity Harmonia
Taught the seminar in High Fidelity:
“The problem with Stereo … ” I can recall

By silence he meant it's bad enough
To squander words on paper. Don't waste them.
Along with your breath, on air. By exile

I got off my plane in a strange country
And saw you standing in the airport
With a blind smile, your eyes like diamonds,

It was a hard winter for the old eskimo,
Sent out on an ice floe by those he loved
More than life, more than seal blubber,

In all honesty, saying this
As if reaching out to hold your hand
And attest to a truth, my tongue

The truth is none of our business.
Our adolescent eye-at-the-keyhole rooting
In a sweetheart’s soiled linen for a clue