‘boxcars boxcars’

            analog scream

                        the last smooth thing
                        and everything changes

            the pool of blood
            the blonde

though it’s pleasant enough strolling through woods not far from a home in the moonlight, the scent of tobacco in the air (I was there) it was 1954

            or before

I could tell when I read them, the poets, the ones I understood, the ones who understood themselves, those who understood neither (I was one) it was

            analog summer

                        when bees in bells hammered interiors
                        and warm days rang

we were importunate then
cultured from a line of stem cells traced back to the Doomsday Book

                        the rape in the fields
                        the yellow of Europe

            analog hours

                        when fortunes are read
                        as we rush by torchlight into the night and the