15/Rosary of Summer

The café yawns:
chairs upturn themselves
drapes gnaw the sullen air
& always this absence
that collars the congress of boozers
languorously draining
their ill-defined days
& burnt-out brains—the body rots,
like the mind that treasures your
slowly fading picture—
that shall spit them out
into the jaws of the open wind
mangy, scabrous—foxes of dreams—
ravaging the silence of our dirty cups:

There are few stories to tell
that have not told themselves out
in eternal telling:
No vacancy for wordsmiths,
truth has closed all doors & windows

(Bitches have come & gone
with their one-night stands)

& we nurse our gin
like wounds
old soldiers vainly exhibit
to all & children

& thus live all
like genteel lovable fools.

Who plucks out whose eyes?
The air thins; many expire.

The café yawns,
immobile as the rock of Gibraltar.

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