forever in words, burning in books
of pistol poetry eventually forgotten,
like bad movies and dead pets.
we were something still
in the long Lower East Side night;
we were loud in Strand,
in the poetry section.
flesh of the body
in the tender moonlight,
in soiled stairwells,
now only in books for others' eyes.
you like to talk about the past
like it was the strangest dream,
yet it was...