just beyond the notch, slumbering
   like a rain-soaked paper on the porch—

This is America. Jury duty
and the token fanfare of breaking
from our daily routines, men and women

learn to decipher the erotic hieroglyphs
of our age, prayers on squares of one-ply paper

Three times a day, I jacked off faithfully, yet
   nothing would enlarge my future, not

One evening at the station
I saw the circle-man

and the bell left unrung,
waiting to be finished

As if she smelled death in my clothes,
saw it in my walk

The wind blows chattering shreds of paper
against the backs of our legs.

The shy gray sky races
over the gold bank bowl-dome

The word has long been out:
Hell is other people.