the mandolin next door played into
dusk; a hymn, a forgetful lullaby.
you two, with your touching hands.
the rosewood tree in the back garden
blossomed only once this year.
its petalled pink uncertain
it languished with the chilly march lions
and late april which stole its pussies.
archetypical lonelyboy
wanting the sex and the love
settles for a job and a ten-cent whore.
you
a saturated mediateque of
brightflashinglights—the yellows elapsing,
oh, oh, the blues try to rescue…
bright flashing lights and the bulbs
and the quickpulsed notes that blink.
they come up on you so.
played well into dusk; a harp joins in.
this song has no last note.
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