I AIM FOR THE
SEASON TO END
Indebted to everything now gone, my
selfsame indenture has an interest
rate lingering. Higher than most; you
can't close an eye. The clanging of a
Klansman's bell pulls horses to attention.
And in the air, remains the tension too.
You can travel to Lambertville to sit on
your ass. You can bus-ride to Kearney
for nothing. It's all and all the same thing
everywhere. Outside my raging window
the Hudson River's roaring, my hearts
are all broken, but my minds are soaring.
There a wax tablet nearby, somewhere close;
one of those old ones where, after you write,
you can peel up the page and the words
disappear, Like my life, that's just
what I want to hear.