After its guile,
the novel's novelty
swears off
its own addiction.
Dope opera.
the acid-tongued
librettist -
each corroded life
a pitted fall
from grace.
Let the fat lady
swing!
Admonished. Instructed
in accepted use
of the domestic
gas oven.
The future
is a dream
that must be dreamt.
A glimpsed horizon
in that airless
iron box -
a half-baked tale
of foreground
freshly flowered.
The dream
is of a dreaming
full of future.
We - not love -
get lost, accept
our own and others'
invitation, throw
sickies when love
attends each
mourning register,
never a day's
absence, ever
present, remember
those shining
faces?
Hopeless only
in a silly sort of way,
marry, unmarry, stick
out the tongue
in least effective
places. We lose
love not love
us - a different
matter of timing
all together.