I should be writing love poems; I am
in love. But I do not feel—
whatever it is that the poets
promised.
My mind—is coming loose
and falling far;
the stardust hazy, hazy in the fear.
the people are applauding,
making riot noise:
he is just a boy—
it is just love.
I am saying the words,
I am spitting the words:
the drowned
people are alive
in my mouth.
the last pavilion 