Your small silver fish
dangles from your neck
and slips
toward the light
illuminating my face
and shrouding your own.

I shout profanities
loud.

There is no beauty suddenly,
it has drained
down the storm sewers
that
I am so afriad of
falling down myself.

I yell profanities
loud.

Suddenly hysterics.
I have no sunflowers to give you.
They have shriveled
and molded.
And when I sow the seeds,
so you may reap.
You are gone.

I cannot find you in art
or Whitman.

Oh Margo, where are you?

You're no enigma though,
so perfectly crystaline
a lattice of exactitudes
that I can make no assumption
about.

I scream profanties,
silent.

It is only during night,
sweet night
that you can be found in
my magazines.

I want to pull off my skin
and paint with the blood.
Cover everything.

Where have you gone?

Polar bear drowned in the snow,
come to the North
and watch the sky with me
and laugh for a moment
as peace comes
through tea
and
under blankets.