The ripe-apple face of youth trots
to knotty pajamas and dentures
lost in a pillow's goose feathers.
One's identity gets tuned wrong:
the infinite pain of being lost...
an unfolded-for-the-day post office.
The inner vapors escape.
The sky is grace and glory...
star-glistening dark freight
bound for a sunless avenue
light years from the sayings
of hedgerow prophets.
I have not worn that flannel suit
since she wore that black knit dress,
her tongue soft on my lips.
I have not shared bread with windbags.
She has not stopped spinning.
Youth has left for San Diego...
for a race track folded
tight in a travel brochure.
Darling presses her identity
against a lonesome willow.
I locate myself beyond
the power of gloom,
pretend I am a stuffed bear.
Or cubed ice in a whiskey glass
plays my song on a late train
bound for a wild-haired girl
in a dream she is having.