Brown shirt
  receding figure
     hands are cold
steps ahead
     hands are cold
maybe too close
     hands are cold
red shoes
   brown shirt
     red shoes
too far away
     hands are cold cold
         hands are cold
maybe hands are too cold
  neon light
steps ahead
  neon light ahead
       and muscles hurt.

Hungry
   but not too
      set apart
         from another one
other side
   walking away
       set apart
hands are fists
   hungry
neon night
   another side
      another one
and fists
    fists
        fists
a neon night
   stepping away
and set apart
   hungry cold cold hungry.

Step up
   step up
      step up
a step apart
      and set away
brown shirt
   white arm
      arm to face
         arm to chin
hand to lip
   hand too cold
and hands are cold
   and hands are cold
swinging door
   and closing door
      and closing door
    and closing door
      and closing door
   and closing door
     and closing door
and hands are cold
   and hungry
and full of sleep
    and muscles hurt.

They hurt real deep.

For all I know,
At the atomic level
There aren't any dreams
Except possibly this one.

softly
through the hair
step
upon the stair
song
beneath the ceiling and
the story
isnt there

hes
out there
drinking his something
or other
god i need water
because its *******
hot in the desert

when
the cold is too much for me
i sleep on my side
and wish it was
yours

he wasnt mine but i heard him sing the words

softly
through the hair
step
upon the stair
song
beneath the ceiling and
the stories
out of air.

****.

My winter love I loved in spring;
We met in my nativity.
But when I found my love for him,
He'd met senility.

My autumn love was much the worse,
He met me in my summer's heat
And when the harvest moon arrived,
He'd much too chilly feet.

My summer love was full of life,
But autumn costs a price too steep:
He'd wake each day at half-past two,
And I would be asleep.

My springtime love, though, God preserve
Until he wakes to find me dead.
He takes the winter out of me
And makes me young instead.

He has a voice for an empty night.
When no one else is up or interested,
He crushes out the words of his pagan love song
And the blue hasn't answered him yet.

What must it be like?, is the thought
Burrowing its way home to the secret core.
What must it be like to be one inside another?
The veins for the tempest of beats in a man's shape?

Too many thousands of days have rendered him
Lazarus but brave, champion of Hours in the lake:
Without the missle of the mission,
Nothing lasts but the foolish story.

The one. The two. To one again, but always
The desperate search. Heat and the rustle
Of body and body seems like the primary theme.
But the two hasn't echoed back yet.

Then the one hits the mark, as he watches apart
From the crowd that produces the crown.
Someday I, is the thought, will be part of a whole.
And sinks back to the evening streets.

Over the city while we sleep,
Outlined birds under the snow
Dream about us.

There used to be an old woman
with an apple tree, and she'd
let me shoot at her.

The blackened foam beneath the
cliff aspired higher than they
ever could.

Who is that lying in the ash?
Without food and without heat
and without blinking?

The ******* the right finally
said something to us that was
not that funny.

To the sand, to the boulevard
with a bang in the heart, and
with plenty to spare.

But don't listen to me,
I'm just the last six words
of a story you've all heard before.
Everybody knows what happens next,
we just like to doubt.