Lampposts, curbs with their trees vanished. A story of departing hands and affairs, that mostly Went untold, unless someone who was there once Visited the old neighborhood, and then They would tell about it, the space Of an afternoon, how it happened in the afternoon So that no record, no print of it could exist For the steep times to come. Once and feet like any human being, and one day Broke out of the shell that had always been, Changed its answers to lies, youthful ambition To a quirk of the past, a fancy, of some Antiquarian concern that this damaged day can never Countenance if we want to live past the rope Of noon, reach the bald summits by late afternoon. And the theater for all that is to come. Too bad the revisions Will never be adopted, but how lucky for you, now, The change of face.
Good times follow bad.
And the locket is still on the chain on a throat. In the blast of sunrise. I will do this, I can do no more. I cannot think on the edge of a platform. As indeed They do sometimes, though like the transparent bricks In a particular dream, they cannot always be seen.