poets and ghosts appear on the scene,
all bleeding to be seen now matter how
haunted the kitchen tends to be.
I am all amazement.
Oh, lust, magnificent,
going on to whisper want.
What was I in the last century?
A stupid kid, and the one before that,
prior to the resurrection, who knows?
Back over brandywine roads,
being here, when forever
figures out how to stay.
Feeling liverish for not
finding spring, for not standing strong,
after zipping up her fresh dress, now.
The only thing for me now
is a very very drunken sleep on the beach
or forgiveness.