The Intentions of the Intentional

When in every weep, the weary
reap. And Rome to Paris parish
quick to follow feet of fast and fettered fools.

Itwastheheat,thehotspot;
the center of the world, man.
Fat Domi Dot. Dot. Dot.
That’s
jazz
Jazz
jazz,
Dig?

By and By as each worked/dead numbers, sets,
and sullies those dammed starvation ghouls he/she breaks
until there is only ever air in the wind.

I was crying last night, baby;
sleeping with your shadow,
in the quiet desperation
of yester-mornings’ tears:
the
sad
sad
song
of every cloud rolling past the sky.

Mark! the sound of sweetness
strike on the sun swept brack: the dry execution
of one tender palm to the next.

Years ago? I was there.
I was
young/
pretty/
the careful diagnosis of strangers.

Conversation upon the Fall

Musing slight in which is wanton
wear, she speaks no sound
in slumbered sleep; by and by
her cheek falls flat to frown upon the night:

“If to-night I choose not that blackish night
with his ‘mare-ish haunt and lore,
but bloom the day with petals soft,
then surely spring one second more?”

“Bring thou petals;
see them dead by ‘morrow.
For be no instance in your light
without my staunch and Blackish Night.”