We're impatient to set out

for the tri-state area. We blink

at correspondences, set our watches

to the wrong light. I was wrong

when I said that bones grow from dirt

in an insurrection of flowers. A Marxist

critiques our posture, the little shit.

I feel we've entered a courtyard

in the twelfth century, and I feel very old,

the landscape's that dehumanizing.

I've grown ancient. How can this be?

How lonesome it feels to pull

one's wallet out in the moonlight.

It's a kind of prayer, the only kind

that makes sense in a garden.

At the center of a garden

is a courtyard, where our children

set vaseline on fire, and we hold hands,

yes, and speak words to one another,

yes, and decide to take off together.

I can't help feeling posthumous

as I walk through the city, thinking

of the last time I was here, of what's

disappeared in the interim. Looking

at the holes where stars should be.

Looking at trees and describing them.

The drinks cost less here. Housing

costs almost nothing at all here.

Art is expensive. I want to get fucked

by the continental ice sheet as it

drifts into the northernmost lake.

When I get stopped by the cops

I pull out a notebook, and suddenly

I'm sixteen again, making bad art

on extravagant stationary, driving around

with leaves in my hands,

pushing my face against the earth.