I crawled into her eye. What did I find?
Possibly corpses, possibly the grave
for if you do not find me, Lucasia, I shall go out of my mind
indifferent to the cosmic microwave
clatters and shatters beside the autoclave.
Tear up You didn't understand; reformat
the shards of lab glass strewn across the doormat
upon which, desolate, the laureate lay
upon a white divan with Chardonnay
overnight caller, look the other way
the sidewalk heaves and cracks above the root
around in sunlight, looking for the dark?
The hooting sirens suddenly go mute
with all the hallmarks of that jeune Jeanne d'Arc.
(To each his own -- except perhaps for John)
He who, in Patmos, passed away in peace?
He smokes and somehow tries to carry on.
So here we are, mucking about in grease.
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