it’s a harsh life with future hope predicated on little balls of milk
in the stomachs of suckling lambs.
The cardinal pimp affixing his eyelashes to the leprous girl
who’s been lost for years in the neighborhood,
a single hair on a ballot box is all that was found.
And the weeping tongues that cast aspersions on Wall Street executives
have no idea how the beer stains remained on the carpets
when conflagrations of moths have lived in bell towers
since the beginning of time.
This, the only sense we can make of it.
The mouths of those who speak of love yet murder in syllogisms
is one of the most common predicaments you will ever embroider.
Better to stay home and knit a sleeve from perilous memories
than to walk along the shore of permuting highways.
Just let yourself go and trust that your shadow will help you forget
about treacherous doorways to congestion and solitude,
becoming more voluminous as you die. . .