Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Backcast

Fidelity, once, had been the sum of it.
Some rise, like Vandals, fleet, from
the suburbs until reduced to the future,
to everything for which, at its genesis,
everything is unmade.
Rising with the numbing slowness of one
of those napping-in-the-afternoon
invaders, pillows afire with the common
dreams of men, spittle collecting
in the Cat Prince's elegant paw.
As for the refined decision, the wild
intimacy that none call Death,
nights spent raving about betrayal--
when? and where?--stumbling upon
animals in suits and hats, watching them
parade over the wide-flung manor the trees
imitate that never seems momentary.
Yes, even life will not have been
worse than that.

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