Here in the capitol
of lowercase relations
your drink is holding
yard sales for you.

Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers
and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins --
a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity,

trying to

become round.

If a condition of space travel was one could nevermore return,
how many astronauts do you think
there'd have been?

More stars in lawschool than the cosmos.

Somewhere there's a story
of Indians singing
instead of pointing and laughing
when the Pilgrims came
and the Atlantic dropped off
into the earth's crust behind them. You see

pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died
drunk driving in World War II knows that.

But still

ovens dream of one day being iceboxes,
and the ice cubes all know this
and it makes them sweat.

Still trying to find
The pieces of you
That you left behind
Inside of me

I have become blind
Or your pieces have intertwined
And melted with mine

Maybe by autumn
the pieces will unbind  
All will be forgotten
and left behind

If only it was that simple
for here it is always summer

terribly impatient,
waiting to conquer the world,
always wanting something better,
stopping to admire,
the world burning in flames,
which path do I follow,
who will I be today,
getting lost in the night sky,
remembering I have you,
throughout this point of havoc,
this next step of life,
before you make the leap,
the leap to the other side,
the side of reality,
that you have yet to achieve,
designed to survive,
eyes open,
day dreaming,

Go.

My soul is weary and
My mask has faded