Oh, delia. I am sorry for our nation. The subtext is clear. It will be eaten by the
ocean
blue habits of the law. My love will be outlived, love that is a transcontinental
spider
manifesting letters, is you. I no longer capitalize your name. I am learning to
cherish
stay-at-home things. Until then, may the grass be communion wine, canned soft
drinks,
the yoghurt & the oats. Say, what did you make of the grass? That which covered
us
in the love we unmade, and all the while the distant Catalonian trade ports
overrun
with our consumerism. As for Cuba, see cobalt and milk-making. Whatever you
love,
industry has been there first. My finest sheepgrain, I will almost miss the garish
Argonauts
who
filibustered our country to its floorboards: you see it turned out the children really
were
just tiny pieces of pop culture packed full of marrow. Now the season, if we still
get
seasons, when the fountainheaded crow of myth calls; wetthroat caws out
my
backdoor. Only door. Let’s be clear, soldier to my heart: some wars we fought in
I’m
not getting. My Crusades, you called them, and every lowercase t became a cross,
and
something sacred became flesh. We turned one by one on our stomachs and did
what
the stonefish do in the flatwater. I said distinguish you from eden. You said rally
round
the flag. And out on the highway the nameless do what they will to the planet.
Though
their hopes are Atlantean. Though their dream is American. It’s all a very sunny
disposition.
I am not above a feeling of superiority to certain errors in this world. Once I felt
such
tenderness for them. Over years I learned that burns. My evening, chance
responder,
withstand this ending world. I kiss its lips for you.