poem: tragedy to introduction and rondo capriccioso

fall is saint-saëns, it is slipping offsilk dresses and leather gloves,hands cut on the dashboardand hair mussed,leaving her body like curtainshung over the seat—his tongue spiced,her cigarette sparking, sexcut and served cold;the air is brimmingthe music rimming up—i counted your sallow face in the crowdthe day i left,over the top,for glory and saint george andall…

poem: we were the world, at war

hello to the dead years hello to the girls in yellow hats, kissing the library windows and pretending they are kissing husbands. hello to the young dead men in trenches, pulsing with no heat, maggots curling around skullcaps and helmets and dead dreams. hello to the girls standing at the train platform, waiting for him…