Not a happy Christmas
with the flames & all, those ruined churches

in my beard, delinquent children sifting ashes 
poked my sore libido with a stick. Oh, & you were there

in a dress that mocked the sensitive 
dynamics of contemporary incest, your long red hair

a blaze of taboo squandered
on the work-week, a series of empty rooms

where I must fashion a likely pretext
to get off-stage, a man about a horse. Well,

I do need to speak to someone. & another thing
was hurting me in the dark, your voice was

an unplanned pregnancy & that was fine except
I had all these bricks to lay &

the women of Brooklyn wore their boots
until my head was full of spurs.

Either noon or the clock
was a reason to leave town. The train or the station

rushed the scene, & I forgot to say
my best lines, the ones convincing

you to follow. Ladies & men of the jury
I submit. It was dark, & I could not have seen.