Two poets 20 and 23 years old, 
Naked in bed with the shades drawn
Intertwine themselves, suck nipples and

A vast crowd, so many, rushed to the riverbank:
Women and men, famous greathearted heroes, 
The life in their hero bodies now defunct, 

The time is coming when it won’t be maintenance.
The time is coming when it won’t be minimal.
I walk with my long-dead dog up a hill.

I turn into the man they photograph.
I think I’ll ask him for his autograph.
He’s older than I am and more distinguished.

I have a friend who has a friend 
Who asked her to place her hand
And place a flower on Samuel Beckett’s grave

I’m going out for a stroll and a bite and won’t take myself with me.
Look after me while I’m gone, will you.
Outside the bleary windows is my sunny city.

The city sleeps with the lights on.
The insomniac wants it to be morning.
The quadruple amputee asks the night nurse what time it is.

Ferns here ferns there
I dream of my newest friends                         
who soon subside    

a “beautiful day”
nothing happened
and nothing was going to happen

Caught here in your limestone cave,
lost in a limbo of slow water torture,
for you, each day is night always.