the kissing dogs are gone, sleeping long, chasing fancy in their fog

curious, a girl with a pocket of amaranth

always fresh rain on her lapel and neck

and eyes that become fixed and smaller in pleasure

an image that remains un-graven in memory, a mystery still,

like a candle stolen from a windowsill

sitting at a bar, drinking ***** with lime

seeing people i know, yet alone in rhyme

"this is how it’s going to be", said the picture of j. edgar hoover

"i’m burning you, feeding the furnace in your belly.

'you'll meet the devil if you haven't already'”, said the *****

"it will all sour, everything. get a taste and die

knowing one heaven”, said the lime

"you want to melt. the heat of your desperation touches me. you want to become a lone liquid and disperse into the clouds.

you think you can travel the world that way, maybe be tossed around

in the clear tide near fiji. but you won’t, look at me”,

said the ice in the glass.