slow summer

There is nothing sweet about the way that he is
playing the piano upstairs, it sounds
like the cruel abuse of keys,
black with decay or molding white.

Glass crackled with spindly frailties
hangs from the ceiling,
holding light.

Sometimes I can scarcely think of
one
person
that I would like to know.

Words like chalk
dry the cavern
of my metaphorical
mouth.

I think in fact:

That I could love you all summer long.

(There is a terrific lack
of luck
in your life

which your round jade
eyes belie.)

I am very fond of other losers.

We who keep tripping
and eating shit.

(What was Quite Pretty --for
a moment--
has grown ugly.
Is that
something?)

I looked at rugs today,
and didn’t buy one.

I spoke despite
my vague disinclination.