Martin sat young upon his bed
A budding cenobite,
Said ‘Though I hold the principles

He licks the last chocolate ice cream
from the scabbed corners of his mouth.
Sitting in the sun on a step

Here is a room with heavy-footed chairs,
A glass bell loaded with wax grapes and pears,

A polished table, holding down the look

The huge wound in my head began to heal
About the beginning of the seventh week.
Its valleys darkened, its villages became still:

New face, strange face, for my unrest.
I hunt your look, and lust marks time
Dark in his doubtful uniform,

Next may rain leach discontents
From your dust, wash what remains

The cops don’t carry magnums of champagne
in the backseats of their cruisers.
In my town, seven year old kids know how to steal motorcycles,

The old Hudson is an odd lumpy cock
standing on its nose in a ditch full of mud.
I want to think that you’re asleep

Quarry in cold
rain, standing pools
of slurry below

Homage to those days
when you're up early and hysterical before noon.
When your deepest darkest doubts