We could shed some snow. The windowpanes
are short of breath. Girls with long braids
who steal souls have left the night shift
and the seagull tavern’s dartboard is bereft;
the happy hour is empty, like on-tap dread. We
need more names for answers we can’t give,
for abstract uncertainty. The lagoon is
in a telephone booth we no longer use
it used to be too fat to fit but an all-around
slendering has set in, a slendering that drips.
I’ve had enough of uncollectible trinkets
that make me frantically unwed. Society
has pierced my ears and the latitudes are now
incorporated, like three-piece clouds. Vistas are
musty or too loud; you don’t wear a suit?
-- Star Black