Long past that moment,
                I might guess when it was,
                but strangely I have no

she’d rather hobble to the window
           to look out on garages and planets

That woman on the beach camouflaged
in sand (in California where
they have Satanic rituals now)

On the farm this had been the hour
Persimmon leaves rang like iron
Or the sound of a screendoor slamming

the only difference
now is that I’m an incurable romantic with an
incurable wound.

When I am 12,000 miles from her
she will take her head
and throw it off a cliff. 

Winsome Bob meets Katherine & drops Nancy.
Nancy burrows even deeper
into her studies of semiology, at Yale.

‘The land is holy’ was as close as you came
to ‘Melancholy’. It changed you at the beach, Eddie -

In the ninth grade I met a fantastic number of times
with Cookie Harris in the woods . . . Under the pretense
of going over our Algebra notes, given the pressure

The night was to the bowler
as pig is to the ham—