Dried corn husks on a summer table,
shown in yellow sunlight
in an echo out of autumn,
the distant pulse of the city throbs,
my headache, longing,
wiling ecstasy of some stranger, pause
to think of it:
Here in my room, the walls laugh.
There in his room,
he laughs at his walls stained with dirt,
and you are filled with some story
about the cause and effect of bodies against each other.
They can soothe that one to sleep
as a whine escapes your lips;
sunlight fading lightly,
sunrise on your empty pockets, stubborn joy;
and as days pass on to weeks span out like names
drifting out of themselves, forever constant in their vagueness
like dreams, that cannot share themselves.
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